Out of Chances
by penless
Summary: Tag to the incredibly intriguing 5x04," The End," so could contain spoilers. Castiel has seen a lot through his human eyes during his time at Camp Chitaqua, and Dean is doing his best. How it all began. Dean whump, sick! Dean, and hopefully some plot.
1. Chapter 1

Hi there. Thanks so much for stopping and checking this out. Episode 5x04 has got to be one of my favorites from that season, if not one of my favorites from all the seasons. There was still so much mystery that remained unsolved in that episode, and that really appealed to me. This story is a result of that. It's three parts in total. I hope you enjoy it, or that I at least don't ruin that episode for you forever ;). Reviews are very much appreciated! Thanks again for your time!

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not my property. My property isn't even my property.

* * *

**Now.**

"Dean, don't do this."

It's the last thing he hears in his dreams, whispering in his ear, a waft of a memory he cannot –try as he might- snuff from his mind. He's jarred awake in a violent manner, like always. He makes a sound when he jerks bolt upright on his mattress, he's sure of it. It's not really an issue, anyway. Tonight he's sleeping alone, so it's not like he has to worry about waking anyone up. He runs a hand over his face roughly, forcing himself into alertness as he concentrates on slowing his heart, which is racing.

It's so dark he can't even see his own hand in front of his face, but Dean doesn't need to. He knows exactly where he is. He makes no illusion of it, not anymore.

The hunter rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He knows by rote the manner in which the rest of this night will pass, and it definitely doesn't involve him falling back asleep. Even if he wanted to sleep, he can't stop the dreaming. Ever since – it – happened, there's been no respite. It's like someone turned a valve in his brain. His sleep is flooded.

Sleep. Deep down, it's what he's most desperate for. Just one night of blackness – blissful, wonderful blackness – would be miraculous. Hard to believe, but he used to think he had a hard time sleeping when he came back from the pit, before…this. It's gotten to the point now where the hunter can't help but wonder if the dreams are some sort of divine retribution for his failures. He did, after all, drop the biggest, most important ball known to humanity. Dean snorts.

_Sleep._

Who the fuck needs it, anyway?

The solution is straightforward: do with less of it, a couple hours every night or two, maybe a little more or less. Getting his rest in small batches seems to keep the problem to a minimum, doesn't give the dreams a chance to start up as bad. He makes due with that, figures it to be a best-case scenario. Any night where he doesn't come awake screaming is a good night in his books.

It's almost his shift, anyway, and Castiel probably wouldn't mind being relieved a little early. It's miserable weather, has been all day and now all night, too. It's raining hard enough to drown a bloody orca.

_And he's been out there since this afternoon. He's probably tired, could use some sleep._

That thought clinches it. Dean throws back his blankets and swings his legs over the edge of his cot, dressing quickly in the dark. It's not like he's getting any sleep himself, anyway.

_Every goddamn night…_

Christ, you'd think he'd be desensitized to the dreams, that he'd be bored by now from the regularity of it all.

He's already drenched before he even has his cabin door shut all the way behind him. He flips the collar of his jacket up, for all the good it does. It maybe keeps the back of his neck dry for two, three seconds longer than the rest of his head but that's it. In this rain, no one can escape dry. It's practically torrential. _At least it's kind of warm out, _he thinks as he soundlessly makes his way towards the outskirts of camp. It's about all the enthusiasm he can drum up but it's more than what he usually gets and he knows it. A little inclement weather is nothing compared to an outbreak or an attack. Or any other mass hysteria-inducing event, like the Apocalypse. Yeah, thank God it's rain and not the Apocalypse. He shakes his head, emits a nearly silent chuckle.

It's a little funny.

* * *

Castiel hears the low whistle far off in the woods behind him, still just barely audible over the sound of rain pelting the trees, the ground. Him. In the days before he'd never had to think about weather and its various discomforts. He was immune, then.

Now, he does think about it. He thinks weather sucks most of the time.

He returns the whistle in acknowledgement that it's understood: a non-hostile is approaching. He eases his shotgun back down to his side, settles back against his tree and waits for his visitor. He isn't at all surprised when a familiar shadow breaks through the cover of the forest.

Dean approaches Cas without a sound, face serious and set. It's the same expression he's worn since Sam. Dean changed after…that. Cas bitterly suppresses a chuckle at the thought.

Hell, they _both_ changed after that. No point denying it. And then there's the small matter of the end of the world.

"Cas," Dean says simply. The hunter nods once, curt.

"Dean," Castiel returns. He lifts an eyebrow in query. "Didn't I just see you barely three hours ago?"

"Did you?"

So it's this, again. Cas sighs. "As a matter of fact, I did. You're not due to relieve me for another three."

"You'd rather I turn around and go back? Wouldn't you prefer to be off somewhere conducting an orgy or something?" He holds his hand out for Castiel's walkie-talkie. He hands it over with a meaningful look.

"You're not fooling me," he tells the hunter as he turns away to head to camp. "I know what you're doing."

"I thought you lost your mojo and you can't get in my head anymore," Dean calls out after Castiel's retreating form. He grinds his teeth and tries not to flinch under the hunter's words as he walks purposefully away.

"I don't need it," is all Cas mutters in response.

It gets lost in the distance between them.

* * *

Castiel never developed the taste for alcohol. Not like Dean, anyway. Not to say he would ever turn booze down, but he certainly isn't thirsty for it the way the hunter is. No, Castiel's preferences lie in other directions. Hallucinogens are always a favorite, but he isn't exactly fussy. These days he's content enough if he can just get his hands on a source for some good weed. He supposes his love for mind-altering recreation stems from his desire to feel…less. And therein lies the similarity between himself and Dean, because the last remaining Winchester drinks for the same reason.

Back when he was an angel, Castiel couldn't understand it.

He gets it now.

He wonders idly if Cindy will still be in his cabin, if she waited for him to get off watch. He hopes so. It's one of the few comforts of being mortal, the feeling of the female body. The welcome, the warmth. The pleasure. It's the closest feeling he's found so far, nearly reminiscent of his former, angelic state…when he was connected to Heaven. He almost doesn't remember what that was like anymore, and he's not sure if he should be glad for it or petrified.

The post is only a mile out from camp and Cas makes good time, despite the pitch black of night and the relentless, drizzling rain. He knows this particular trail like the back of his hand. He's been keeping guard from this point for the last six months, working at least four shifts a week. He's more than a little familiar with the area, but it's not like he has any difficulty navigating the rest of the zone. Strange, but Camp Chitaqua has become more or less a home for him. Back when he had his wings, he never thought he could say that about a place that wasn't Heaven. He never felt at home on Earth before he was demoted or left behind or whatever the hell happened to him. Things are different now, and this camp has indeed become his home. He doesn't have much to compare it with; it's the only place he's lived in as a human. It's just this feeling he has whenever he thinks about the people in the camp. There's a fierce sense of urgency, of desperation that he gets. Like he needs to protect everyone, to shut out the horror of the world and just keep them _safe._

That's another similarity between he and Dean.

He gets that, too.

**

* * *

**

**Then.**

"Camp Chitaqua, Bobby? Sounds like a place parents send their kids to over the summer in a big yellow bus." Dean sets his empty glass down, pours himself another generous helping from the bottle of whisky that sits on the table between he and Singer.

The older hunter eyes the glass Dean's just poured but otherwise doesn't mention anything about it. "It's not," is all he says, voice level and eyes unreadable. Castiel can't help but lean forward, listening. Outside, the wind is howling through Singer's salvage yard and the junk heaps are groaning with the force of the gale. It sounds unsettlingly human.

Dean takes a long swallow, drops the glass down on the table heavily. "It sounds like running away."

"It's not that, either."

The younger man spins his glass on the table in a distracted manner. He moves as though to pour himself another drink but Bobby beats him to it, fills the glass with a deft tip of the bottle. Cas isn't sure why Bobby would willingly abet Dean's drinking since he's consumed more than enough this evening. The angel is about to say something but as he shifts in his seat he gets a sharp glance from the grizzled hunter. He knows that look means _shut up and stay out of this, _pure and simple. It's then that Cas understands that Bobby has an endgame; he wisely sits back and lets whatever this is play out.

Dean remains oblivious to the silent exchange between the angel and the older hunter. "So why don't you tell me what it is, then?" He sounds acrid, bitter. Cas flinches as the hunter drains the whisky from his glass again, but Bobby takes it in stride, doesn't even bat an eyelash.

"It's helping an old friend, Dean. And a whole lot of people."

Bobby begins to explain the situation, and right away Castiel can see that Dean will end up agreeing to it.

"Camp Chitaqua. Yeah, it _was_ a summer camp for kids. You got that much right. These days it's a hell of a lot more. You remember Marcus? From Connecticut? He started it up as a haven of sorts. It's out of the military zone - they're not under jurisdiction, but they're open to attack and if they are, the cavalry ain't exactly gonna come rushing in. They're pretty much on their own out there. Just civilians looking after civilians."

"And?"

"And he could use the help. He needs other hunters, Dean, people who can keep the shit from hitting the fan. He's got a bunch of people there, and more keep showing up every day. There's a whole lot more to be afraid of besides Croats, too. It's like the supernatural world is having a jamboree out there; don't tell me you haven't noticed that business seems especially good these days." Bobby's voice is laced with sarcasm, his tone blunt. Of course Dean's noticed. It's the only thing he's lived for, ever since he and Sam parted ways.

Dean looks at Bobby, disaffected. "Don't you know some other people you can send in? Like the Babysitter's Club, maybe?"

Bobby sighs, weary. Cas can hear it in his voice. See it in the way he slumps in his wheelchair. If this doesn't get through to Dean, nothing will. The elder Winchester has proven himself to be harder and harder to reach. Between dodging Michael, keeping tabs on Lucifer whenever possible, hunting, and maintaining all outward appearances that what his younger brother does is of no concern to him, the hunter is exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally. Dean's lost his fire. Every day is a matter of waking, rising, fighting. It's a vicious cycle that doesn't seem like it's about to break itself anytime soon. And Castiel has long run out of methods to keep Dean from imploding. It's clear that the hunter has taken the separation from his brother hard, despite the fact that it was ultimately Dean's decision. Or maybe _especially _because it was Dean's decision.

"Look, son," Bobby tries again. "I don't know what else to tell you. Marcus needs help keeping these people sane. It's not babysitting, it's protecting them, fighting for them. This Croatoan virus is going to be the end of a lot of people. A lot. We know this, but they don't. They're still looking for hope, for a reason to believe that this shit will either resolve itself or that somehow, some way they'll be saved. It's a god-awful fight, I realize. And there's not much chance that this will end well. This outbreak, it's just getting started. And Lucifer is behind it. And Sam-"

"Leave Sam out of this," Dean growls in warning, eyes flashing dangerously.

"And Sam," Bobby continues, unfazed, "Sam will do what he's going to do. You need to trust your brother, Dean. You guys have gone your separate ways. Fine. He's off chasing the devil, and you're fighting the good fight. But I can't stay here, in this chair, waiting for the news that one _or both _of you has gotten yourselves killed. I'm done."

Bobby pauses, inhales. Then, "I'm going, Dean. I'm going to Camp Chitaqua. I can't sit around like this anymore. I need to feel like I'm doing my part in this fight, too. I have to help. Do you see what I'm saying, boy?"

It takes Dean a long time to respond. A heavy silence hangs in the air, one that Castiel dares not break. Instead, the angel watches as Dean grabs the bottle of booze, twists the cap off. He pours himself another drink and one for Bobby, too. Bobby watches silently as Dean pushes the glass towards him, setting the bottle down with a thud. He cocks an eyebrow as he reaches for his drink, fingering it thoughtfully. Finally, he raises his eyes to the elder man.

"Then I guess I should go pack my toothbrush," is all he says. He raises his glass to Bobby in silent tribute and both men drink.

**

* * *

**

**Now.**

He's barely put his hands on his cabin door before he can smell the unmistakable scent of fresh incense burning. It's Cindy, he knows, and he's eternally grateful. He pushes the door open and she's there at his table, sitting with just one of his t-shirts on, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

Her smile is bright, comforting. It draws him inside, although he didn't need the prompting. Just her presence is enough. Castiel smiles in relief at her as he tugs at his laces and toes his muddy boots off. Next he shucks off his outerwear, tossing the garments on the floor in a sodden heap.

"I've made tea," Cindy says. She rises to her feet and grabs a mug off the table, shaking her head so that her hair falls off her shoulders and settles down her back. That's another thing Castiel missed out on when he was an angel: the enjoyment of watching how a woman can move, can do the most intimate things with barely a gesture. He wants to reach out for her long hair and wrap it around his hand, breathe deeply and take in her scent and carry it with him always. He never understood what it meant to have "chemistry" with someone until the first time he smelled a woman's scent, until the first time he was aroused. It's so near to perfection he could cry at the thought.

Instead, he takes the proffered mug and returns her grin.

"Thanks," he says, wraps his arm around her, hand squeezing her buttock as he leans down and kisses her. "I needed this." There's no need for him to clarify whether he means the tea or Cindy.

They sit down at Castiel's table. "Did you see anything?" Cindy asks, crossing her legs the way that drives Cas crazy, exposing the sleek curve of her thigh. Castiel lets his gaze travel the exquisite lines of her body before answering. Cindy blushes slightly under his approving eye.

"Nothing," he tells her. "I'm not sure if we'll see him."

"I hope not," Cindy responds, shivers. "I hope he's dead."

"Dead is better," Castiel agrees, taking a long swallow of his tea. It's strong, and he smiles gratefully at Cindy. "Thanks again," he tells her.

Cindy smiles, laughs. Her pupils are only slightly dilated, a sure sign she waited for him before she tied in, herself. "No problem. I had a feeling you'd need it, with this weather."

"That I did," Castiel agrees, shrugging off his soaked undershirt. His forearms are covered in goose bumps. "But there's something else I require besides your famous mushroom tea."

Cindy smiles, knowing. Her hands move to the t-shirt of Castiel's that she's donned in his absence. She removes it and sits naked in all of her beautiful, mortal glory.

"So you have no clinic scheduled for tonight?" she asks, bemused.

Castiel shakes his head. Cindy's smile grows wider in understanding.

They may not be exclusive, but tonight he is exclusively hers.

"You could be in trouble," she warns him.

"I hope so."

It proves to be a long night.

**

* * *

**

It's morning, and he's overslept. Again. His eyes snap open at the sound of vigorous pounding on his cabin door. His name is being shouted tersely.

"Cas, dammit! Get up before I kick the door in."

He will, too. He did it once already, last fall. Cas flips over onto his back, his hand flopping out and striking nothing but rumpled blanket. Cindy's slipped out already, it seems. The sheets still hold her smell.

"Cas!" The door is rattling violently against its hinges. Cas throws the blanket off. He darts a look out his tiny window and can tell by the light slanting in that it's way too early before he's supposed to report in.

"I'm up," he calls, clearing his throat. He pads sleepily over to the door and throws it open. Dean looks Cas up and down briefly with disgust.

"Christ, Cas," the hunter complains. "You couldn't throw a little mascara on?"

Castiel looks down at his nakedness, absently unashamed, before he answers Dean. "I didn't realize I'd be reporting for duty early." He steps aside to allow Dean room to enter.

"We're running an errand in town. Thought you'd be interested in coming," Dean responds. He picks up one of last night's tea mugs off the table and sniffs the remains at the bottom, makes a face and puts it back down. He pulls out one of the chairs and makes himself comfortable while Cas slowly begins pulling himself together.

"And what makes you think that?" Cas shoots over his shoulder as he zips up his pants and bends down to pick up his boots, still damp from traipsing home in the rain and the mud. He pauses and squints at Dean. "Have you even gone to bed lately?" The hunter rolls his eyes in response.

"Because it's a supply run to one of your favorite shopping outlets, Cas," Dean says, deliberately not answering the latter question. He grins tightly. "The hospital."

Cas pauses, considering. As tired as he is, he _is_ running low on diazepam, and Dean can't be trusted with such matters. Last time, he requested oxycodone and the hunter brought him back Children's Tylenol instead, as a joke. Castiel thought it was bad taste and returned the favor when Dean twisted his knee badly on the very next mission and could have probably used the good stuff.

"We need more antibiotics." Dean scratches behind his ear. He only fidgets when he's thinking about something he's not saying.

"For Greg and Shelley's daughter?" Castiel stomps his feet to settle them in his boots. He grabs his rifle, leaning against the wall by the door, straps it to his back. He tucks a knife in his belt and Dean stands up.

"Yeah," Dean responds, drops his eyes briefly.

Cas nods, doesn't say anything else. He'd visited the family the other day after his morning watch was over. A wild dog recently attacked Marissa, the twelve-year-old daughter. She's lost most of the left side of her face and her right arm was badly bitten from trying to fend off the animal. It's looking very likely that she may lose it. The parents are understandably taking it hard; Greg hasn't been at his post since it happened, and Shelley hasn't left her daughter's side. Luke, the resident medical hack, isn't holding out much hope that the girl will even survive.

Judging by the grim look on Dean's face, Cas guesses that the hunter doesn't, either. He doesn't comment, just holds the door open for Dean.

Outside, the morning is gray and overcast, the rain stopped sometime during the night. There is a bluster of activity about, but that's not an unusual sight. All around there are men and women busying themselves, carrying wood or building supplies, holding inventory lists, reporting for scout or watch post duty. There are the boisterous sounds of companionable conversation, the murmurs of quiet talking, and a ripple of other background noise. Those who pass near Dean offer a nod of deference, and he returns one in kind. A small pack of children are darting around, laughing, with a makeshift daycare attendant in tow, holding the hands of the smaller ones. A little boy cuts in front of Dean and the hunter automatically reaches out a hand without slowing his pace and pats the kid's blonde head.

As they walk, Cas sees a familiar sight in his periphery. He turns his head and is met with a host of gorgeous smiles. Cindy is among the group of women, helping fill a wheelbarrow with large rocks. She's still wearing his shirt. He returns the smile, grinning widely. He knows them all quite well: they regularly attend his clinics, or "hippie love fests," as Dean calls them. The hunter notices the wordless exchange and chuckles, shaking his head.

"You dog," he murmurs appreciatively.

Before long, they've left the centre of the camp and come to its edges. Here, it's quieter, somber. The sounds of conversation are softer, more serious.

"Who's that?" Cas asks as they come up to Benny's pickup and a figure rises from a squatted position in the truck bed, rifle in hand.

"Alex."

Cas glances at Dean sharply, and the hunter quirks a lip. "I know what you're going to say," he says, "and it's the same thing I told him. But he insisted, and he's a damn good shot. With any luck, he won't have to use it, anyway."

"He's only eighteen."

"Yeah, and when I was eighteen I was cutting the heads off vampires."

It's not the boy's age that Cas has the real problem with: it's the fact that Alex is Marissa's brother. Cas opens his mouth to say so but Dean cuts him off.

"He begged me to come, Cas. He needs the distraction."

"Well, he'll find it, alright. And so will his parents, if anything happens to him. Have you thought of that?"

"Cas," Dean growls, then sighs. "You wouldn't understand. Just let him help his sister, okay?"

As they come up to the truck Benny swings open the driver's side door and hops out. Being a hunter, he also drives a hunter's vehicle. The massive pickup is reinforced with bulletproof siding and windows, floodlights, and a small artillery. Benny extends a hand in greeting to Dean and then to Cas, pumping their hands once in solemn greeting. Dean turns to Alex, who squats down again to shake hands as well. Dean eyes the boy up.

"How you doing, Alex? You good?"

Alex nods resolutely, his expression serious as he climbs down out of the truck bed to stand with the rest of them. "I'm good, Dean."

Dean holds his gaze a few moments longer, evaluating. A strange expression rolls over his face briefly, gone in an instant before his eyes harden again.

Cas knows he's thinking of Sam.

It's a quick drive out of camp, the truck not having any difficulty negotiating the forest floor terrain, following the path that's been carved out by previous trips. Beside Cas, Alex shifts nervously on the backseat, keeps checking and rechecking his rifle. The boy's face is pale and set, jaw clenched and palms sweaty. In the front seat, Dean pretends not to notice. Cas averts his eyes and stares out his passenger window in silence.

He's met with the view of the Impala, sitting near the gated entrance to the camp. It's still as broken and smashed up as the day they arrived here.

Again, Dean pretends not to notice as they pass by. The hunter stares straight ahead, refuses to look out the window on Castiel's side.

A muscle twitches on his jaw, below his ear.

**

* * *

**

**Then****.**

"Cas! How's he doing?"

Dean twists his head to stare back at the angel and Bobby in the backseat, knuckles white on the Impala's steering wheel. The elder Winchester is driving frantically, careening around the back road's tight corners, windshield wipers turned on as high as they can go and yet still barely managing to keep the rain at bay. Lightning strikes savagely, lighting up the sky with cold light and thunder cracks instantly after. Bobby, however, is blind and deaf to any perception beyond his own pain.

Cas presses harder on Bobby's chest and abdomen over the bullet holes. There's blood everywhere and the angel can't tell if the bleeding has stopped. Bobby's beginning to make noise, gasping like a dying fish. His face and lips are white, and the crimson stains on his teeth look obscene in contrast.

"Cas!"

"I don't know, Dean," the angel looks up, peering out into the stormy night. All he can see is what the headlights illuminate: crisscrossing rain, thrashing tree limbs, and reaching shrubbery. "How much further?"

Dean doesn't answer him. He doesn't know. Instead, he pushes harder on the accelerator.

Cas turns his attention back down to Bobby. The grizzled hunter reaches up and wraps a shaking, bloodstained hand around the angel's wrist. His mouth moves but no sound comes out besides the sound of hissing, escaping air.

The car fills with the sound. "Dammit, Bobby, hold on!" Dean barks. Then, "Shit!" The hunter jams his foot on the brake, keeping the car's rear end from sliding out of control as he slides on the gravel to a full stop. Cas has to use his body as a shield to keep Bobby from flying off the backseat. When he's able, the angel looks up and sees what Dean's staring at, slack jawed.

A person is standing in the middle of the road.

Dean leans forward, squinting. "Is that-?"

"Dean." Cas says softly. Dean meets his eye in the rearview mirror, and Cas jerks his head over his shoulder towards the rear window. It's hard to make out in the storm, but there's another person standing on the road behind them, apparently having just stepped out from the middle of nowhere. They're deep in the woods, no other cars or houses around for miles, and it's the dead of night.

"Bloody hell," Dean mutters. "There's Croats out here, too." His voice sounds strange, sleepy. Cas leans forward and notices for the first time that blood is running down out of the sleeve of his black t-shirt, darkening the fabric in a spreading bloom across his shoulder and upper chest.

"You've been shot?" the angel queries urgently, and needlessly. Dean grimaces but otherwise doesn't respond.

"Hang onto something," the hunter tells Cas. By now three more Croatoans have stepped out of the darkness and joined the first, just out on the fringes of the light from the Impala's headlights. Their faces are visible, staring dispassionately with cold eyes, the demonic virus having winked out the light of humanity in them. "I'm going to run these sons of bitches over."

**

* * *

**

It's a horrific drive, but it's even worse when the Impala finally stops.

They approach Camp Chitaqua's gate, and there are signs of life on the other side. Dean starts blasting on the horn but doesn't slow down. Suddenly the motion on the other side of the fence becomes frantic, and people are running. The gate is swung open just in time before the Impala goes sailing through it.

It's at that moment the hunter passes out from blood loss, having finally delivered Bobby to safety. Cas has just enough time to brace for impact and keep his charge protected before the Impala crashes. Castiel's body slams against the back of the front seat, Bobby lurching beneath him. There is the sickening sound of metal crunching and the cacophony of breaking glass. It's so loud that the shouting that follows seems hushed in comparison. The angel raises his head, blinks.

He realizes Dean's been thrown from the vehicle when he sees that the front seat is empty. By then there are bodies around the car, hands reaching in and tugging gently at Castiel's shoulders.

"Hey, fella. Are you okay?" Then, directed somewhere outside of the car, "Bring stretchers! And blankets!"

Castiel raises his arm, disengages the hand that's wrapped itself around his bicep. "I'm not in need of assistance," he says as he climbs out of the car. Already, someone is reaching into the backseat, carrying a stretcher. "Where's Dean?"

The man who is standing with Cas, still checking him over for any sign of apparent injury, startles a little.

"Dean? You mean, Dean Winchester?"

"Yes."

"And that's Bobby Singer?" The man motions to the direly injured hunter, being whisked away with a small group of people.

Cas nods. "It is."

The man looks at the angel. "What happened? Who attacked you?" He shifts and steps to the side, and now Cas can see Dean. He's sprawled on the ground, and there are people attending to him. One woman is keeping his neck and head immobile while two others gently turn his body and roll it onto another stretcher. There's blood smeared across his face and his eyes are closed.

Cas follows them as they carry Dean away after Bobby. "We were attacked in Bobby's home," he begins.

"Croats?" the man asks.

The angel nods. Clearly it's not a secret, not anymore. "The demons brought them there and they attacked us. We barely escaped and Dean didn't know where else to take him."

The man's hand falls squarely on Castiel's shoulder, offers the angel a grim smile.

"He made the right choice. We were expecting them, but not under these circumstances, I'm sorry to say." He holds his hand out to Cas.

"Don't think we've met, but I'm sure we'll have all the time left in the world to get to know each other." His eye twinkles. "Please excuse the bad joke. Name's Marcus."

The angel shakes it.

* * *

A/N: Two more chapters. I hope to see you back here! Thanks again.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, again! Thanks for reading! I especially appreciate the reviews, the alerts, and the favorites. I hope you enjoy this part and the next (last). Please, if you have the time, tell me your thoughts.

Disclaimer: Not. Mine.

* * *

**Now.**

It's dusk by the time they come rolling back into camp, dusty and exhausted.

Dean is remarkably cheerful, and once they deliver the antibiotics to an impatiently waiting Luke the hunter invites the small company back to his cabin for a celebratory beer. Benny and Castiel are happy as always to oblige, and Alex is downright thrilled. It'd been a relatively quiet mission. The hospital was located in a part of town the military had recently swept through, pushing the Croats out of the area for the time being. Only problem is a lot of the buildings in that sector have suffered significant damage. The hospital wasn't an exception. A whole wing of the building was knocked off, and what's left looks about ready to crumble and cave at any time. They salvaged what they could, including all the medical supplies, instruments, and medicine they could find. They filled the truck bed with bedding, towels, cots, whatever they could fit. It was a smooth and unhurried operation; opportunities like these don't come around too often. It had occurred to Cas at one point that Dean had probably somehow been tipped off by someone who knew that there would be no military activity on this particular block today. He never bothered with asking the hunter if his suspicion was correct. If Dean wanted him to know, he would have told him and that's where the discussion would have ended.

Driving in and out without being spotted is a little touch and go at certain points, but there's hardly a Croat to be seen. It's just about unbelievable.

The ease of the venture does not damper Alex's resultant feelings of pride. It was, after all, his first mission, and it was hugely successful. Sitting at Dean's table, the kid's face is practically glowing. He watches Dean with rapt attention, the admiration shining in his eyes.

Cas can't help but be amused.

Dean tosses a beer to each of them, including Alex. "Don't tell your parents," he tells the teen mock-sternly. Then the hunter tips his own beer in the direction of his comrades in salute, cracking the can open. He meets Castiel's eyes briefly as he drinks and looks away.

Benny chuckles as Alex opens his beer and warm foam spills out, leaving the kid no other recourse but to clamp his mouth on the can and suck it back before it makes a mess on Dean's floor.

It's the first genuine smile Cas has seen on Dean's face in days, maybe weeks.

**

* * *

**

"Would you quit saying that?" Dean snaps, scratching under his chin irritably.

Cas looks up from the joint he's rolling. Benny and Alex left some time ago, and he and Dean have since moved on from beer.

"What? Dean, that kid looks at you like you're a hero. It's not the most terrible thing in the world, you know. He clearly idolizes you and it's kids like Alex who are next in line in this fight. It shows that people look to you as their leader. Also, you tell them what to do, how and when to fight. Ergo," he adds flatly, "you _are_ their leader."

Dean drops down onto the edge of his cot with his whisky bottle. He starts rubbing a hand back and forth over the top of his head, distracted, as Cas continues.

"You're just doing what comes naturally to you, Dean. And you do it well, too. So don't let some title get you uppity." He moistens his rolling paper with the tip of his tongue, swiftly tucks and twists and holds the finished product up between his fingers, asking permission to smoke inside. Dean makes a vague assenting motion with his hand. He offers it to Dean after he lights it but the hunter predictably refuses.

"Just…don't _say_ it, okay Cas?" Dean fixes him with a quietly beseeching look. Maybe it's the way the light from the lantern is throwing shadows but the hunter reminds Cas of the hospital they ransacked today, ready to crumble. Cas taps the ash from his joint into his empty beer can to break eye contact. When he looks up, Dean's face is back to its familiar stoniness.

"I won't, if that's what you want," Cas solemnly promises. "But it doesn't change anything."

There's a knock on the door before Dean can reply.

It's Gerald, breathing heavily as though he's been running for some time. He's also clutching his handgun. He steps inside as Dean opens the door.

"They saw him. I just came from the south post."

Dean's already got his rifle in hand and is out the door before the man takes his next breath. Cas hands Gerald his joint and leaves the messenger still huffing for air and takes off after the hunter.

It's late at night and there's hardly a soul about; they can break into a run without much worry of drawing attention.

"What are we going to do if it's really him?" Cas asks, keeping pace with Dean.

"What do you think?" Dean's voice is hard and blunt as a rock.

It would have been nice to pretend, even for one moment, that they had another option besides extermination. Cas gives his head a wry shake as he pants along beside Dean.

Obviously, the hunter doesn't feel like indulging in that kind of frivolity this evening.

**

* * *

**

**Then.**

Dean's first memory of Camp Chitaqua is a happy one.

When he opens his eyes he's dazzled nearly to the point of blindness, despite the dimness of the room. That's how he knows he's been asleep for a long time.

A face bends down close to his, and it takes Dean's reeling senses a fraction of a second longer to register that the face belongs to Castiel. Eventually things come into focus and the angel begins to lose his blurriness. Dean blinks to clear his eyes.

"Dean? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Cas," he groans, voice scratchy in his own ears. He turns his head and tries to look around while he forces himself into alertness. "I can hear you…you're two inches…from my face." He suddenly realizes that he has no idea where he is. Also, his body aches. Now that he's had a minute to think about it, his shoulder is humming with a sharp pain that's bone deep. He looks down at it and sees it's been immobilized with heavy bandages. Even just the simple motion of turning his head makes the bolt of agony spike and Cas is already reaching solicitously, guiding him back down with gentle hands. Dean hadn't even realized he was trying to sit up.

"Just lie down for awhile first, Dean," Cas tells him. "Do you remember what happened?"

Something clicks in his head at the words and Dean is suddenly aware that something is very, very wrong. It's then that he remembers and he's pushing against Cas, trying to get up again. He's already exhausted himself, and he can feel his heartbeat thrumming in the path the bullet took through his body. He's nauseated from the sensation, the pain stealing his breath.

"Where's Bobby? Is he okay?" The bed next to his is crisply made and undisturbed; the implication makes him scared to even ask.

Cas pushes Dean carefully back down. There's the sound of shuffling, and suddenly someone else is standing beside the bed, looking over the angel's shoulder.

"Bobby's going to be fine," the stranger says, extending a hand to Dean. The hunter regards him warily for a moment, and the man's bearded face breaks into a genuine grin when he notes Dean's guarded expression. "I heard you were the surly type, Dean Winchester. I'm Marcus – pleasure to meet you."

Dean registers the name and he reaches up with his good arm and Marcus gingerly shakes, mindful of not causing further pain. "Pleasure's all mine," Dean tells him. "I'm grateful to you for saving Bobby's life."

"From what I hear, you're the one who saved him. That's quite the drive, you must have made it here in record time." Marcus moves out of Dean's line of sight and there's the sound of a chair scraping over to the bedside before he reappears and continues.

"And Bobby came out lucky, all things considering. From what we can tell, the bullets missed his organs. Luke got them out without too much trouble, and he should be out of the woods so long as infection isn't a problem. He's sore as hell and cranky from blood loss. Probably will be for awhile."

Marcus' face suddenly darkens, and he leans forward. Dean feels his mouth go dry.

"But I have bad news. There's something you should know, Dean."

The hunter can only stare and wait for Marcus to continue.

"I'm afraid Bobby's paralyzed from the waist down."

A tense moment passes as Marcus sits there and waits for a reaction while Dean struggles with how to tell him that this isn't news. Suddenly Marcus leans back and makes a waving motion, grinning conspiratorially.

"I'm just shitting you," he tells the gawking hunter. "First thing he did when he opened his eyes was demand someone replace the wheelchair you left behind so he could be brought in here to see for himself you were okay."

Marcus reaches out and gently clasps Dean's good shoulder as he stands to leave.

"And I must say you're a damned sight for sore eyes, Winchester. Welcome to Camp Chitaqua."

Dean only barely hears Marcus. Bobby's going to be okay, that's all that matters, and he sags into the mattress in relief. He doesn't remember much of their insane flight to the camp. It's all a blur after the attack. His last clear memory is barreling down a dirt road, trying to keep his focus on driving even as the world flashed and fluttered like a movie reel at the edges of his vision. He remembers the panic, the fear that he's going to pass out behind the wheel at any moment, and the feeling of absolute certainty that when he gets to Camp Chitaqua he's going to arrive with a corpse in his backseat.

Dean has other questions that he wants to ask, but he can't muster the strength to open his mouth and say the words. As his eyes begin to drift closed and he's tugged into unconsciousness he hears Castiel's voice, carrying him down into the oblivion of sleep.

"Maybe we should wait a little longer before we tell him about the car."

It's a pretty fair trade.

If he could have, Dean would've smiled.

**

* * *

**

** NOW.**

It's raining for the third night in a row.

Smith and Colin are on watch when Cas and Dean get to the south post. Cas can see that both men are shaken.

"Where'd he go?" Dean asks, dropping low beside Smith on the rocky outcropping, peering down into the gulley. Smith points off into the darkest part of the shadows.

"It sounds like he's in the caves," Colin says, voice hushed.

Everyone strains to listen, and it can be heard. Thin laughter floats up to them, bouncing off rock and the sides of the gulley.

"How close has he gotten?" Dean doesn't take his eyes away from the patch of darkness he's studying.

"Just outside of shooting range," Smith responds. Cas drops to his knee beside Dean.

"Want some company while you wait it out?" he asks. He shows Dean the inside pocket of his hunting vest. A flask glints softly in his pocket, a flask that he keeps for just such occasions.

"Much obliged," Dean smiles grimly, turns back to peering into the black.

**

* * *

**

After some hours of fruitless vigilance the heaviness of night begins to wane into a predawn haze, and slowly the gulley becomes a recognizable shape that can be picked out of the gloom. Someone should be coming along to relieve them at any moment.

_And just in time, too. _Castiel's fingertips have long since gone numb, and after a long night of sitting in the misty rain he's more than ready to pack it in. He glances at Dean; the hunter's nose is red from the cold but he's not shivering, the whisky obviously doing its job. Cas had taken a couple of sips from the flask himself, and he did enjoy the fire it stoked in his belly but otherwise doesn't care for it overly, just brings it with him in the spirit of comradeship.

It had been an uneventful night. Shortly after Dean sent Smith and Colin away the laughter in the gulley died down and went silent; there hasn't been the faintest stir since, not even a leaf rustling the wrong way.

"If you want to take the rest of the day off after this, I wouldn't hold it against you," Dean tells Cas, breaking the silence that had settled some minutes ago.

Cas rolls his shoulders and head, loosening tense muscles. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since Dean roused him out of bed by pounding on his cabin door. "What about yourself?" he asks, feeling his neck crack.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Cas answers slowly, "what are you going to do?" He turns his head and looks at Dean, waiting.

Dean considers. "I thought I'd go swing by and see how Chuck's doing on inventory. We should probably start getting ready for winter."

"Couldn't you get Reese to do it? He's done it before."

Dean's voice is flat. "Cas, is there something you wanna say to me?" He hands back the empty flask and Cas tucks it away in his vest.

"Nothing in particular, I guess." He gets to his feet and brushes himself off. Behind them, someone whistles in a low tone and Cas returns the signal before continuing. "You just seem a little more tightly wound than usual. Maybe you should just take it easy today, relax. Maybe go see what Tiffany's up to." He grins suggestively. "I seem to remember that you two got along well the last time you met."

Of course, Cas is referring to the time he accidentally interrupted Dean and Tiffany when he borrowed the supply truck in the dead of night to haul a load of sandbags, not realizing they were…preoccupied in the truck bed, both naked as the day they were born. Dean looks like he's about to comment but stops when he hears someone coming.

Cas turns and is greeted by the sight of Gerald approaching, ready to start next watch. He's happy to be relieved, and he drops the subject and extends a hand down to Dean to help pull him up to his feet.

The walk back to camp is done in companionable silence. The gray light of dawn is filtering through the trees and the forest is stirring. A few birds call back and forth amidst the droning hum of insects. The air is cool and easy. It's so peaceful it could almost be possible to forget that the world is literally ending all around them.

"Do you miss it?" Dean asks Cas out of nowhere as they approach the gate entrance.

"Miss what?"

"You know what, Cas."

Cas pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat. This is the first time Dean's ever asked, ever brought it up. Cas became human immediately after Sam said yes in Detroit, and both events haven't been discussed since the day they happened. Until now, that is.

It takes Cas a moment to work up enough moisture in his mouth to answer the hunter. His throat suddenly feels constricted. Is this shame? Regret? It's hard to tell, at times. "I suppose I do," Cas says, falters. "Well, I do and I don't."

Dean doesn't say anything, just nods like he understands. From the way his mouth twitches it's clear that he doesn't.

"It's not exactly like a riding a bike, Dean," Cas tries again. "Me being an angel…the memory of it is slipping away. It's starting to feel like a dream I had in another life." He ruefully shakes his head, thoughtful. "Now that my bike's gone I'm forgetting how to even ride it in the first place."

It's almost poetic, because as soon as Cas finishes saying it he realizes that they're walking past the Impala, sitting broken and still.

Dean gazes at the wrecked fragment of his own former life and turns to Cas. His laugh is brittle and thin, like a dead leaf.

"I think I know where you're coming from," he tells the one time angel.

**

* * *

**

** THEN.**

Dean visits Bobby the next day. The older hunter is still in the medical tent. He's drugged to the gills, swaddled in bandages, and blearily awake. It's damn near the most beautiful sight Dean's ever laid eyes on.

Bobby smiles when Dean walks up to his bed, supported at the elbow by Castiel. Singer closes his eyes like it's too much effort to keep them open.

"Hey," Bobby says in a rusty voice. It takes him a few more seconds, but his eyes manage to crack back open. "Look atcha," Bobby fondly murmurs. "Ready to play nursemaid."

"In your twisted dreams," Dean retorts, but he can't keep the smile off his face. "Jesus, it's good to see you, Bobby."

Marcus comes in with Bobby's painkillers and a glass of water, nods in greeting at Dean and Cas. "I'm afraid you'll just have to settle for me swabbing your brow instead," he teases Bobby gently.

Bobby lifts his head enough to look at Marcus, lets it drop back against the pillow. "Oh, yeah," he intones. "Nurse Ratched over here."

"Oh, come now," Marcus laughs. "I'm not that bad. My bedside manner is a lot better than Luke's. You should be grateful."

Cas can tell that Dean's legs are still a little wobbly, and he brings over a chair, which the hunter doesn't sit in without a withering glance directed right at the angel.

"Enough about me," Bobby turns a serious eye to Dean. "I ain't the only one sporting a new hole or two."

Dean shrugs his good shoulder. "I'm fine," he replies with a dismissive smile, which may have been convincing if he weren't so pale. "Bullet went right through, nice and clean."

Marcus grunts in approbation. "I've got to hand it to you two: you are a couple of lucky buggers. I'm glad to see you both on this side of the grave." The hunter turns to Dean.

"So. Grand tour now, or later?"

Dean looks back at Bobby. The older man grins back weakly, closes his eyes again. He turns back to Marcus.

"Now sounds good."

**

* * *

**

It's slow going. Dean is shuffling along like he's eighty, even with Castiel's help. The hunter is leaning on the angel like his life depended on it, because as much as he is loathe to admit it he feels like he could fall flat on his face at any given moment. But he doesn't want to throw in the towel and go back to bed just yet, so he hangs on. Marcus isn't insensitive to Dean's weakness. He takes it slow and easy, leading them where the walking is easiest. He talks animatedly and gestures all around at various tents and cabins.

"It's not much to look at just yet," he's telling them. "It's a work in progress, you see. We're bringing in materials and we're going to start building more cabins as soon as we can. The communal garden is down this way, the community hall, mess hall. Over there's where the daycare's going, and the school, too."

"Sounds like you're planning on staying awhile," Dean jokes weakly, looking around. Christ, he's already out of breath.

Marcus glances around to make sure no one else is within earshot before he answers.

"I don't know how long we have here," Marcus tells Dean earnestly. "But I intend to give these people as normal a life as I can. So we plan ahead for the future, because that way we live like we _have_ a future. Keeps the bedlam to a dull roar." He shrugs, turning his palms up to Dean and Cas. "Who knows? Maybe something will come from this, after all."

Dean nods, marvels at the strength and determination of the man standing before him. The more he sees, the more it becomes apparent that this isn't some two-bit operation he's got going. This is an honest to God, self-sufficient commune, or the makings of one. It's the real deal. When he looks around, he sees people working away, focused and calm. He sees people with purpose, intent on a common goal: to get this camp off the ground. He sees commitment, fortitude, hope.

He turns back to Marcus, the man responsible for it all, and finds himself truly at a loss for words. He struggles to keep the emotion in his voice at bay.

"It's great, Marcus."

It's not for another few days that Dean learns Marcus' wife was killed some time back while he was gone on a hunt. She was sitting at a bus stop, of all places, when a vehicle ran off the road. Apparently the driver had suffered a sudden stroke. Both were killed on impact. When Marcus' cell rang - the one with the phone number that was listed as an emergency contact only - he knew that his Sandra was gone and dropped what he was doing and drove three states home to his dead wife. They'd had no kids so Marcus was now suddenly alone, and when his neighborhood was evacuated under the first wave of the Croatoan outbreak he'd grabbed only one thing before he forever shut the door on his old home, his old life.

His wife's wedding ring, which he wears around his neck like an amulet.

**

* * *

**

** Now.**

Upon arriving at the camp, Dean is immediately whisked away by Chuck, who is wielding a clipboard and repeating the word "condoms" over and over as they walk away, heading towards the Quonset hut. It's not that babies are unwelcome, but it's still a problem trying to meet the camp's needs with the size it currently is. Contraceptives are a big deal, and there isn't exactly an Albertsons kicking around on the nearest corner.

Cas doesn't see Dean for two days after that. Not like it's unusual – there's never a dull moment around the camp and plenty of ways to become preoccupied. But old habits are hard to break, and although he's officially been relieved of angel duty Cas still can't help the residual twinges of concern regarding his former charge's whereabouts. He ends up blowing off his scheduled clinic to inquire after the hunter.

It's not long until he finds Dean sitting at Marissa's bedside. Her parents, pale faced and wan, admit Cas into their cabin without hesitation.

In Marissa's bedroom, the air is pungent with a sickly sweet smell. The little girl's face and arm are bandaged, the stain of infection slowly seeping through. Her visible eye is closed, her small chest puffing in and out like a scared animal. Alex is also sitting with his sister; when he sees Cas enter the room he jumps out of his chair and offers it to him.

Cas cringes. "At ease, soldier," he says, half-joking. "I just wanted to come by and see if there's been any change."

Shelley comes up behind Cas and lays her hand on his shoulder. "Not yet," she says in a soft voice, and she musters a shaky smile even though the tears are shining in her eyes. "But we're praying." She squeezes Cas' forearm lightly before her hand drops back down to her side.

Cas doesn't need to see Dean's expression to know the hunter is scowling. He's well aware of Dean's opinion on the matter, that if God can hear them praying down here he must obviously not give a crap.

Castiel's feelings are a little less straightforward. He still loses sleep trying to sort them out.

**

* * *

**

"Are you feeling okay?" Cas asks Dean as they walk away from Greg and Shelley's cabin.

Dean frowns, his expression quickly progressing from confusion to annoyance. "What? Yes. Why?"

"You turned down dinner. And you look beat to crap."

Dean bristles. "Cas, there's shit I need to do. You can come help or not, but if you do come you better change the subject." He quickens his pace, leaving Cas with the option of either following and thus agreeing to the hunter's stated terms or simply letting him stalk off.

This is one of those rare times where Cas becomes annoyed with Dean's brusqueness. The hunter is pale and tired looking, with dark circles under his eyes. There's no need for the brush-off. He pushes after Dean, has to jog a little to catch up.

"And what's wrong with pointing out the obvious?" Cas can hear the irritation creeping into his voice. Dean hears it, too. The hunter stops right in his tracks and fixes him with a strange look. It's not anger or annoyance. It's not sadness or remoteness. It's not anything. Dean just looks devoid of any kind of emotion, blank. It's upsetting. Cas wonders if that's what he used to look like, before he was downgraded.

"Because you sound like someone I used to know," Dean answers in a suddenly calm voice. Then, quietly, "Why don't you just enjoy the rest of your night off?"

This time, when the hunter walks away Cas lets him.

**

* * *

**

** Then.**

Within a matter of a few short weeks, Cas can see that Bobby was right. Coming to Camp Chitaqua was the right decision. It's been a balm to Dean's wounded spirit. The hunter's thrown himself into work with a refreshed sense of purpose. He's already asking to be put on patrol duty the day after he wakes up.

Marcus scratches his beard, thinks it over before answering.

"Give it a couple days and we'll go out together on the next rotation switch. In the meantime," he sternly adds, "you just take it easy."

"Fat chance of _that _happening," Bobby snorts from his bed, turns his head on his pillow and closes his eyes.

As for Singer himself, the hunter is steadily improving, but Luke insists he stay under observation until they can find him a wheelchair. Marcus was right about one thing: he really is sore as hell. It takes Bobby a week before he can sit up without grinding his teeth, and he and Dean are sporting matching slings for the first few days. Other than the discomfort, though, his healing goes rather smoothly.

Marcus gives Dean and Cas each their own cabins. They look like they were used as sleeping quarters back when it was a kid's camp. There were probably several child-sized bunk beds in them at one time, but they've since been removed and replaced by functional cots. Other than that, they come pretty sparsely furnished. A table, two chairs, a lamp, candles. A bookshelf with a dusty paperback or two. "Take the cabins while they're there for me to offer," he tells them, smiling. "Feel free to add your own personal touches." He smirks before continuing. "Pretty soon we'll have to start building new ones and newcomers will have to make due with tents until then. As for Bobby, we'll build him a ramp so he can get up to his door."

On Cas' first night in his cabin, he sees the book in his shelf is a tattered copy of _East of Eden._

He reads until dawn.

On the ninth day after their arrival Marcus manages to procure a wheelchair for Bobby, and Dean wastes no time taking him for a long awaited stroll through the camp. Dean has already familiarized himself with the layout and some of the people, and he pushes Bobby through every inch of the place. Cas doesn't know who is more delighted, Dean or the older man.

As for Cas, he finds himself getting along well enough. He's put to work right away, and he feels a little clumsy at first but he manages to pull his weight. They decide not to tell anyone about him being an angel. Dean had figured it to be for the best. A lot of people weren't exactly thrilled with God at the moment, and there's always the chance that an angel of the Lord could also make the shitlist.

If anyone notices Cas' initial awkwardness with swinging hammers or pushing wheelbarrows it's not mentioned. He is, after all, another sorely needed pair of hands. A pair of hands that, if anyone were watching closely enough, inexplicably do not seem to feel fatigue. He's careful to come off his shift with everyone else and not outperform others. He makes a show of eating and drinking, has to remind himself at regular intervals to take meals. He follows suit when others complain about the weather. He tried laughing at a joke once but it sounded forced, even to his own ears. He hasn't attempted it since.

Dean tries to field questions directed at Cas whenever possible, saving the angel the difficulty of lying. He makes Cas sound as boring as possible, so as not to incite further questions. Yes, he's new to the camp. He was an accountant before he came here, from Virginia. No, he's not married. No kids. Had a goldfish named Stan, once. Cas commits the answers to memory as Dean helps fill the holes of his fabricated past.

Before long, they settle in. Cas becomes quite adept at pretending to be human. Bobby occupies himself with fixing weapons and communications equipment, and Dean finds himself a new life. The hunter can't get enough of it. He works patrols, goes on supply runs, signs up for watch duty. Even on his days off he's working away happily, hauling rocks or assisting with whatever building project is going on. He's anywhere the help is needed. Plus, he still gets to hunt on top of everything. He regularly goes off in search of Croats, black dogs, demons, whatever he can find that comes in the area. Marcus keeps him up to speed on demonic activity, signs of Lucifer or Michael, and anything else that's important to Dean, like which Rondell twin is Marcie and which one is Carmen.

Dean is smiling a lot these days.

The one thing that remains mangled is the Impala.

Dean mourns it, but it can't be helped. Marcus had broken it as gently as he could to the hunter shortly after he was up and about.

"I'm sorry," Marcus had said, and it was clear by the look on his face that he really was. "There's not much we can do, Dean. I know it's a gorgeous machine, but we don't exactly have parts lying around for a '67 Impala. Besides, it wouldn't do for long out here. Not with the roads already being the way they are, and they're only going to degrade over time. We need trucks, jeeps, things that can bounce along the mountain and do some hauling. We can't spare the oil and gas for anything that isn't absolutely necessary. I hope you can understand."

That night Dean sat inside the ruin of his beloved car and drank quietly.

Bobby explained it to Cas from his sickbed.

"What you need to understand is that Dean has spent his life in that car. His childhood, adolescence, all of it. Most of his memories of growing up take place in it. Of growing up with _Sam._" The hunter says the name emphatically. For a moment Bobby has to stop speaking, but he clears his throat and goes on. "It's been more of home than anything else. It meant the world to John, so it meant the world to Dean. That car is family. He's saying goodbye."

Dean doesn't mention anything about the Impala the next day.

He doesn't talk about it for a long time after that.

**

* * *

**

** Now.**

Cas knows something is wrong when Dean doesn't show up for morning report-in. He takes over and does Dean's part, gives out the details on any occurrences during the night watches and patrols. These last couple of nights have been unusually quiet, and that means that either they are just really fortunate or some huge nasty has moved into the area and scared all the smaller ones away. Dean and Cas are both inclined to believe that it's the latter, but no reason to make the locals fidgety until they know for sure. Until then, patrols are doubled and there is a mandatory radio check-in every thirty minutes. Most of these guys get it, anyway. It's no secret that something is up, but everyone is keeping calm about it. That's why Dean's presence is so heavily influential. No one keeps as rock steady as the hunter, and Cas knows that while he may be a pretty good number two he is no replacement. He resolves to go and see what's going on with Dean when he can manage to tear himself away from the day's obligations.

It proves to be a harder feat than he'd originally planned. Once he's given out the day's assignments he hears about a generator that's broken and has to run to the other side of camp to see which one it is. On the way back Chuck bumps into him, looking vaguely intense about something.

"Where's Dean?" he asks, adjusts his glasses in disheveled haste.

"Not here," Cas answers simply. "What can I do for you?"

Chuck pushes a piece of paper with a few frantic scribbles on it. "I need these tacked onto the list of supplies we need on our next run." Cas takes it and frowns, tries to decipher Chuck's illegible handwriting. He glances up when Chuck starts talking again.

"Hey, does Dean have messed up dreams often?"

_Yes. _"How would I know?"

Chuck shrugs. "I don't know. You guys are close; I figured you'd have noticed. Last night he was over at the Quonset doing inventory with me and I left to boil us some water for coffee. When I came back he was sleeping at the table sitting up. He was mumbling something, and when I put my hand on his shoulder he practically freaked out. Almost broke my wrist." He rubs at the offended limb and winces in memory. "He just muttered something about how he thought I was someone else in his dream."

"I better take this over right now," Cas says, indicating the paper in his hand before he stuffs it into his pocket. He turns on his heel.

"There's no rush," Chuck calls out after Cas. "The run isn't for a couple of days."

There's always a rush.

**

* * *

**

By the time Cas finally makes it to Dean's cabin it's already late afternoon. The window is shuttered and the door is locked. Sure signs he's home.

He knocks on the door and counts to ten. He's even polite enough to knock again before he picks the lock.

Dean is sitting up on the edge of his cot, blinking. He drops his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes, and complains bitterly.

"Damn it, Cas. I locked it for a reason."

Cas jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the door. "Yeah, I saw. I locked it behind me."

"I'm sorry I showed you how to pick locks," Dean groans under his breath, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. He has a bucket at his feet.

Cas looks him up and down. "What's going on with you?"

Dean laughs. It's a hoarse, wheezy sound. "Oh, not much," he mumbles. "What's going on with you?" He leans forward and retches, and Cas moves forward and catches him by the shoulder. The hunter shivers and heaves and shivers again, even though he's burning to the touch. Cas moves a hand to Dean's face briefly, palming his forehead and then the back of his neck. The hunter's head rolls and he observes Cas with glassy eyes. "You're actually here, right? I'm awake right now – not a dream."

"That's right." Cas bends down and picks up Dean's feet, guides his legs up onto the cot. The hunter acquiesces to the mild manhandling and actually lies down. Cas starts untying his boots while he's compliant and tugs them off. The water jug is sitting on the makeshift night table, empty.

"Dean? I'm going to get you some water." He's pretty sure that Dean doesn't hear him. His eyes are rolling under closed lids.

Cas doesn't want to alarm anyone, not just yet. Still, he figures he should grab Luke. Just in case.

Dean's voice is weak, but the glare in his eyes is smoldering when the hunter sees that he's brought company when he returns.

"Son of a _bitch_, Cas," he growls. "I just want to be left alone." He's got the blankets pushed off and he's pouring sweat.

Luke ignores the snarl of protest as he draws back the curtain covering the window to allow some light. He comes over and drops to his knees beside Dean, starts to palpitate his throat. "Are your glands sore?" he asks.

"Fuck off, please."

**

* * *

**

It gets to be a difficult situation. Dean is sick and he stays sick all that day and into the night. It's when the activity and the sounds of the daytime dwindle as the sky darkens that his raving becomes a problem. Cas is sure that anyone who passes by at the right time can hear the weak shouting. The hunter's either burning up, shivering profusely, or he's dripping sweat and slack bodied. His fever cycles endlessly, rising higher and higher, pushing his delirium, until it breaks and he soaks the mattress with perspiration before it begins to climb again. Luke initially holds out hope that whatever this is, it will burn itself out quickly.

It's clear by morning that this isn't the case. Dean's nearly out of his mind with the violence of the fever.

"Dean, can you hear me? Luke's back. He's got some pills for you to take."

"No," the hunter gasps, twists his body around and flops onto his stomach, curling around his midsection in agony as the cramps seize him again.

"What? Why no?" Cas wraps his hand around Dean's shoulder and gives him a gentle shake to keep the hunter focused on his words. "Why no, Dean?"

"Because," Dean rasps, "save them. For the girl," he gags again, leaning his head over the edge of the cot, over the bucket.

Luke leans forward and puts a cool cloth on the back of Dean's neck. Dean grunts in surprise at the sensation. The medic exchanges a quick look with Cas, who bends over closer to Dean's head as he tries once more.

"Dean, it's only Tylenol. Marissa is on antibiotics. And we raided the hospital's pantries, remember? We're good, there' s no shortage."

The hunter is already mumbling disjointedly again. Cas sighs, and with Luke's help he manages to force the pills on him, makes him drink some water. "You really should have said that you were getting sick."

"Quit it, Sam," Dean says as Cas lays him back down again, then turns his head and starts his muttering up again.

"Who's Sam?" Luke asks.

Cas keeps his voice completely level.

"I don't know."

If he were still an angel he'd have a hard time bluffing.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3 Part 1

Hi, everyone! Thanks for coming back and reading the next part. I know that I said the story was going to be three chapters, and that's still _mostly _true, but I've split this last chapter into two parts, or else it would have been pretty long. I also intended to post both parts at once, but I decided to go ahead and post this part since my beta rocks super hard and she did such an awesome job of going through this and returning it back to me right away. Thanks so much, graceofgod!

If you have the time, please do tell me what you think. Thanks to everyone out there who has alerted, added me as a favorite, and commented. I feel incredibly lucky that there are people who are enjoying reading this. Floored, actually.

Hope you like.

Disclaimer: If I owned any part of Supernatural, I'm pretty sure I'd know. In which case, you'd know.

* * *

**Now.**

The next week is a long one: Dean is as sick as Cas has ever seen him, completely out of it, and so he bunks in the hunter's cabin to take care of him. He also takes on Dean's duties and does the morning report-in as well as the rounds. Dean usually sleeps the entire time Cas is gone, worn down from the night's hallucinations. Cas is likewise exhausted – he only sleeps in the spare moments when Dean is quiet and resting, no longer muttering. Otherwise, he tries to keep on eye on his friend, keep him hydrated, comfortable. Tries not to listen when Dean talks to Sam.

He doesn't tell the hunter that his brother is gone. It wouldn't matter.

Although Cas and Luke are quiet about it, before long word spreads that Dean is out of commission. There is a stir of concern, but underneath that remains a note of unease. It's unlike Dean to not be up and about, no matter how poorly he may be feeling. The immediate, unspoken fear that ripples through people is that this could be the beginning of an outbreak. A strange, hesitant silence blankets the camp, people working and going about their business furtively, as though it's expected that more will be felled by disease at any given moment.

"Can't you give him some antibiotics or something?"

Cas helps Dean through another round of retching, supporting him and preventing him from falling off the bed as he vomits into the bucket.

Luke shakes his head. "If it were bacterial, yeah. But that's not the case." He exhales slowly, cheeks puffing out. "I'd feel better if we took him and put him in the medical cabin." Cas steadfastly refuses, shakes his head.

"He'd lose his privacy – it's not what Dean would want."

"I don't think he's in any position to tell us what he wants. He hasn't made sense in hours."

"That's what I'm here for." Cas turns away, back to Dean, and Luke doesn't push it.

**

* * *

**

It starts out different, but it ends the same.

Sam is sitting on a bench in the schoolyard by himself. It must be recess, because all around him kids are running around, shouting and laughing. Sam is not himself, or at least, not Sam _now._ He's maybe eleven years old. He's wearing that jean jacket he loved as a kid, and his wrists are just starting to poke out of the sleeves. Dean remembers it well.

His little brother doesn't react in the slightest when Dean sits down next to him, like Sam knew he'd been behind him the whole time. Instead, he pushes away the hair the wind has blown into his eyes in a perfectly childlike gesture.

"Hey," is all Sam says.

Dean almost can't take it. His heart stutters and leaps up into his throat, and he feels himself choke a little. His eyes sting with emotion and he blinks rapidly, clearing his vision. He's not sure if he's laughing or shuddering.

"Hey, yourself," he answers shakily, swiping at his eyes surreptitiously. He smiles even though his heart is absolutely breaking. "It's really good to see you, Sammy." He can't keep the tremor out of his voice.

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam sounds sulky, bored. "I just saw you this morning. We had breakfast, remember?" He gives Dean a look before he turns his attention back to staring morosely, watching kids being kids.

"Right," Dean quickly agrees. He clears his throat, gets himself under control. "Breakfast. So, uh, you got any geek friends around or what?" He gestures out at the schoolyard. There are tons of kids that look around Sam's age.

Sam glowers darkly. "Doesn't matter," he mutters. "We're leaving when we get back from school today, anyway."

Dean bobs his head, swallowing thickly. He knows this argument, knows it well. He falls into its pattern without batting an eyelash.

"Sam, this school sucks, anyway," he elbows his little brother gently. "Don'tcha think? And you know we have to go; it's important. So don't be too mad at Dad, okay?"

Sam shrugs, scuffs the toe of his sneaker on the gravel underfoot. "I know it's important," he responds. "I'm not dumb. I just don't see why it always has to be Dad. Can't someone else do it?"

"Come on, Sam. How many kids can say they have a hero for a father?"

Sam raises sad, bottomless eyes and looks at Dean.

"He's always leaving, Dean," the youngest Winchester protests. "Leaving us behind, for as long as I can remember. It's not normal," he insists, crossing his arms and hugging himself. "It's not right. And you're too young to be looking after us."

"Hey," Dean cuts in, offended. "I think I did okay, didn't I?"

"What do you mean, 'did?'" Sam queries. "You still do okay. You do great. Better than Dad." His voice suddenly becomes empty, sorrowful.

"But you'll leave me, too."

Dean turns his head to his brother, mouth open to object. It's then that he realizes it's suddenly gone dead quiet around him, which is unusual, considering he's in a schoolyard. He looks around and sees that there suddenly isn't a kid to be seen anymore. It's just himself and Sam, and a rusty playground. The grass is gone, leaving parched earth and gaping fissures. The colors of the sky have faded into smoky grey, and ash chokes everything. Dean looks over his shoulder. There is no school anymore, just rubble and soot. He puts his hand on Sam's shoulder protectively.

"Sam-" Dean says urgently, and Sam lifts his head. Lifts his black eyes to stare right at the older Winchester. When Sam opens his mouth, it's not his child's voice that comes out, but the voice of Sam as an adult.

As Dean last heard him.

"Dean, don't do this."

He's not sure if the scream in his ears is his own.

**

* * *

**

It's the middle of the night, and Cas is dozing in his chair when Dean comes awake with a violent cry. The angel jerks upright, eyes flying open and meets the hunter's wild gaze. Dean thrashes inarticulately, weak and clumsy, and Cas moves to restrain him as carefully as he can. His left cheekbone still smarts from the last round of delirium when he caught a glancing blow from a flailing fist.

"Just take it easy, Dean," he says as he takes the hunter by the elbow. His skin is still blazing hot, and his face is flushed with fever, eyes glassy.

"Cas," he mumbles, recognition in his voice, licks his lips. Cas gives Dean a drink of water, guiding the glass to his mouth and holding it there while he swallows. The hunter gulps thirstily, then starts to cough and choke. Cas sets the glass aside and hurriedly leans him forward until he's got his breath back. "What…How long -?"

Cas gently pushes Dean back until he's lying flat on his back again. "Awhile," he admits to the hunter. "Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

Dean blinks up at the ceiling, dazed. Then he's suddenly rolling to the side without warning, clutching the edge of his cot and heaving into the bucket. He brings up all the water, and Cas feels something give deep in the pit of his stomach. Something more serious than simple concern begins to snake through his belly as he watches Dean retch. The hunter is losing more fluid than he can take in.

When he's done, Dean presses his forehead into the mattress, shivering.

"Again," he mutters to himself.

Cas leans forward, uncertain. "You're going to be sick again?"

Dean flops onto his back, weakly throws his arm over his eyes. "No," he answers in a hoarse voice. "Well, yeah, but not what I mean."

Cas takes Dean's pulse, rests the back of his hand on the hunter's forehead briefly. "Sit up," he tells Dean, tugging him up as gently as he can. Dean is oddly compliant, only groans faintly in response to being moved. "You need to drink more water and you need to keep it down this time. You're getting dehydrated." He feels bad about keeping Dean awake when he so clearly wants nothing more than to be left alone. He softens his voice, changes the subject. "What did you mean?"

"Huh?"

"You said you didn't mean 'again,' as in throwing up again. So what did you mean?"

Dean looks at Cas blankly for a moment, and Cas knows the hunter is deciding whether or not to tell him. Then he slouches and sighs, obviously too tired to care much.

"In my dreams," Dean says, sounding weary and resigned. "It always ends the same." He stops, rubs his face. When he drops his hand and looks back at Cas, the former angel can see nothing in his eyes but irreconcilable guilt. "I hear the last thing Sam ever said to me."

Judging by how Dean's hand shakes as he accepts the glass of water, Cas is willing to bet that whatever these last words are, it's not a happy memory. Dean manages a few swallows of water before grimacing and handing the glass back. He lies back down and turns away to face the wall, closes his eyes. His breathing slowly evens out and the seconds begin to stretch. Then he snorts, chuckling.

Cas looks up. He's reading Steinbeck again. "What's so funny?" he asks.

"Nothing, really," Dean says, lucid but more asleep than awake. "Jus' thinking. The shit you say, y'know?"

"What do you mean?"

Dean yawns, fading. "I mean, you don't think to yourself, 'this is the last thing I'm ever gonna say to you.'"

Cas knows without question that Dean's talking about Sam. He can see the hunter shivering, so he gets up and grabs another blanket from the corner and throws it over him. "What was it? The last thing you said?"

Dean shifts slightly, relaxing under the added warmth of the blanket. "I told him goodbye." There's a pause, and for a second Cas thinks he's dropped off into slumber until he speaks again.

"But I didn't mean it."

**

* * *

**

** Then.**

It's his favorite routine, and it comforts him to this day.

Dean's in the large cabin used for general assemblies and other meetings, taking advantage of the wide tables. His entire gun collection is disassembled and neatly splayed out before him. This is about as Zen as he gets.

His dad taught him how to clean firearms when he was seven, and it's as regular as breathing for him now. Dean can still hear his father's low rumble over his shoulder, encouraging him. He can almost smell his aftershave. He remembers how tall and reassuring John's presence was as his calloused hands steered Dean's clumsy, inexperienced fingers through the motions.

_First, son, you take it apart. Like this. Remember these parts: the frame, slide, barrel, and the guide rod and recoil spring. Next, you wipe them down with this cloth until the cloth comes out clean. Okay, good. Now, apply the solvent and let it soak before you scrub. Good work, Dean. _

Dean picks up the bore brush, lost in the memory, and begins running it through the barrel. It's almost enough to keep him distracted.

_Don't think about Sam_, he tells himself. _Just, don't._

It's not like he could call Sam, anyway. There's no cell reception out here, and they don't exactly keep a Batphone for emergencies. Even if he could call his brother, he doesn't know what to say. He can still hear Sam's voice on the phone, pleading to him in their last conversation.

_Look, Dean. I can do this. I _can. _I'm gonna prove it to you._

Above all, he remembers saying the hardest words he's ever had to say to his little brother. Words he never thought he could ever utter in his waking life.

_Bye, Sam._

He feels like a joke for trying to pretend otherwise, but he hasn't been able to put Sam away in his mind. He can't stop thinking about his brother: what he's doing, if he's safe and well, if he's getting closer to Lucifer. Of course, thinking about Lucifer isn't far off from thinking about Michael, and Dean feels his head begin to reel. It's the same song and dance he goes through approximately every moment of the day. The burden, the guilt, responsibilities, questions. The endless litany of self-doubt, blame. It's all here, in his head, his and his alone. It's enough to make a man go insane.

Dean puts down the bore brush, picks up his rag again. He steadies himself with the calming routine in front of him, his weapons cleaning. He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales out his nose, grounding himself.

Outside, he hears the muffled sound of voices, slowly becoming louder as they approach. A moment later the door is opening and Marcus is stepping through, Gerald behind him. Dean only needs to glance at their faces to know that bad news is about to break. He puts everything down and stands, mildly alarmed.

"What is it?" he asks. "What's going on?"

Marcus looks at Dean's project on the table. When he meets the hunter's eyes, he's smiling in a way Dean's never seen before.

"It looks like we are going to have our mettle tested," he tells Dean in a perfectly steady voice. "We're expecting visitors."

Dean's heart quickens, adrenaline already starting to respond. "Croats? You mean, an attack?" he asks, mouth slightly dry. "How many?" he demands, seeing the affirmative nod.

Marcus runs a hand over his beard a moment before answering. "Gerald counted about thirty from as close as he could get. There could be more by the time they get here."

"Which is when?"

Marcus looks to Gerald, who spreads his hands. "If they keep heading here at the pace they've been going at? I'd say by tomorrow evening sometime."

Dean nods, considering. "Okay. That gives us time."

"Time to what, Dean?" There's something the way Marcus asks it that makes Dean wary.

The hunter frowns. "To get the women and children out of here."

A moment of tense silence passes, and Gerald takes a small step away, rubbing the back of his neck. Marcus smiles sadly, moves in a little closer with eyes full of patience. His tone is coaxing. "Dean," he says softly. "Where could we move them? Where would they be safe?"

Dean struggles to answer, hesitating. Marcus lays his hand on the hunter's shoulder firmly. "I don't like saying it any more than you do hearing it. But this is the world we live in now. There's nowhere for them to go." His face hardens slightly and he sets his jaw; the hand on Dean's shoulder squeezes.

"Which is why we're going to meet these things halfway and kill them before they get to the gates."

**

* * *

**

The news spreads quickly, and the camp is transformed into a centre of activity within minutes of Dean leaving the cabin with Marcus and Gerald.

"I want you to round up all the usuals," Marcus tells the hunter as they walk. "We meet back in an hour and start getting a hunting party together. We need weapons."

"Dean!"

Dean spins at the sound of his name, finds Bobby wheeling up to him along the path. The grizzled hunter's face is pale and drawn.

"Bobby?"

A cold knot of dread settles into Dean's stomach, twisting his gut. There is a look in Bobby's eye that shakes the hunter to the core. He suddenly doesn't want to hear what the older man has to say, doesn't want to know what has his hands shaking like he has palsy.

"Dean," Bobby says, "I think you better come with me. There's something you need to see." He pauses, eyes flicking to Marcus briefly before looking back to Dean, stricken. "I think it's best if you came alone."

The ground feels as though it's caving under Dean's feet, and he feels the pit of his stomach and his heart simultaneously drop away with it. His sight momentarily dims into a narrow corridor of vision; all he can see is Bobby's grieving face.

Dean knows he's not ready to deal with this. He's not. He wants to tell Bobby this, even opens his mouth to do so. But all he can think about is Sam.

"Okay," is all he can say instead. He steps behind Bobby's wheelchair and wraps his unsteady hands around the handles. "Let's go."

**

* * *

**

They pause in front of Castiel's cabin doorstep.

Bobby rubs a hand over his mouth. "Are you sure want Marcus to come in with us?" he asks. "This is going to get personal." The grizzled hunter glances at the man in question. "Sorry," he tells Marcus. "No offense meant."

Marcus shakes his head. "None taken, Bobby." He looks to Dean. "I really don't need to be here for this, Dean. This is a private matter, and I understand. I trust you will tell me if it's anything I need to know."

Dean smiles sadly, regretfully. "It's about my brother," he says with calm certainty. "And that means it can only be about one thing. So if this is the beginning of the end of the world I'm going to say it's safe to assume it's a need to know. And you may as well hear it straight from the horse's mouth." He senses Bobby tensing, but he doesn't ask which nerve he's struck.

He finds out when he pushes the door open. "Well, I sure as hell wasn't expecting this."

Cas is standing in the middle of the cabin, but he isn't alone. A man sits before him, bound hand and foot to the chair he's sitting on. He's sitting in the middle of a devil's trap, etched in chalk on the floor, regarding Dean and Bobby with a baleful sneer.

"Look who it is," he spits. "Dean Winchester. I thought this place reeked of trash." He blinks, and his eyes turn black.

Dean turns to Marcus, his face cold and unreadable.

"Deadbolt the door behind you," he says in a deadly voice.

The demon laughs, relaxing into its restraints casually. "What? You going to torture me? You, the failed disciple of Alastair?" It licks its lips in anticipation. "Oh, this'll be good," it says eagerly.

Dean crosses the space between he and the demon in two strides and strikes it across the face, snapping its head to the side with the force of the blow.

"Shut up," the hunter growls. "Cas, where did he come from?"

"He walked right up to the gate," the angel answers, voice low. "He said he would only speak to you." His eyes slide down to the demon with distaste. "Of course," he adds, "that wasn't until _after_ he broke Germaine's arm."

Dean nods, but he doesn't take his eyes off the demon, which grins back at him and gnashes its teeth. Dean returns the stare levelly, without a twitch of emotion. The silence that drags on is interminable. When the hunter finally speaks, his voice is sharp as a blade.

"Who else has seen him?"

"Just Colin and Gerald," Bobby answers.

Dean leans down close to the demon. "What are you doing here?" he hisses. "What the hell do you want?"

The demon smiles, amused. "Oh, nothing much," it says. "Just checking out the neighborhood." It casts around the cabin vaguely before fixing Dean with a cold glare. "I didn't find much of interest."

Dean snorts. "Whatever you say. Got any final words before I send you back downstairs, you son of a bitch?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." The hunter doesn't even blink before he launches into it. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanic potestas, omnis –"_

The demon's cry is a sharp note that pierces the incantation. "Enough! Wait!" Dean falls silent and the demon struggles faintly in its bindings. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"I already asked you once," Dean replies in a chilly voice. "_Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii –"_

"Wait, damn you! Wait!" The demon throws its head back, straining to stay inside its body. When the hunter doesn't resume the chant it looks back up, panting.

"You can send me back," it says vehemently. "Doesn't much matter, the rate things are going. I'll be back up before long. But I came to give you a message before you do."

"A message from who?" Dean demands.

"Who do you think?" the demon hisses, eyes narrowing.

"Don't listen to him, Dean," Bobby says. "Demons lie. Demons are full of shit."

"Yes," the demon snaps. "I came here to a place that is crawling with hunters –after many great pains of tracking you down, I might add- to pull your leg and regale you with a delightful story or two. Did I mention I came alone? Alone and unarmed?"

"You did a pretty good job of mangling Germaine's arm, even so," Cas points out.

The demon frowns up at the angel. "Self defense," it simply says.

"Whatever the hell you wanna call it," Dean cuts in. "I'm not in the mood for bullshit. So this can be quick and easy or Hell on Earth before I send you back to the real thing. The very next words that come out of your mouth are going to decide which one it's gonna be."

The demon answers Dean smoothly and with a sneer, unblinking.

"Lucifer wants you to know that your brother is close to finding him. It's going to happen, Dean. And it's going to happen in Detroit. Soon."

Dean's face doesn't waver, doesn't change its expression as he moves away and begins pacing. "And he wants me to know this because?"

"Because he wants you to come down to Detroit and meet up with Sam."

Dean laughs bitterly and stops pacing. "That so?" he challenges. "And just why exactly would he want me to do that?"

The demon shrugs. "Because," it answers without concern, "it's not going to change anything, and Lucifer wants you there to prove it to you. So you can see for yourself." The demon's grin gets wider. "Even if you _do_ go to Detroit, Dean, it won't matter. Sam will say yes to Lucifer, but you'll keep pussying out as usual. You'll never say yes to Michael, and that will be the end of that."

Dean shuts the demon up with a gag soaked in holy water as he finishes the exorcism.

**

* * *

**

Cas gives Dean a ten-minute head start to let him cool off, on Bobby's insistence. He follows Bobby's lead, waits it out with the aged hunter before following Dean to his cabin.

Cas isn't sure what he expected to find, but it's not the calm, collected hunter that he encounters. Dean has his back turned to the angel and Bobby, doesn't even so much as acknowledge them in the slightest as they enter the cabin. His head is bowed and he's got his weapons duffel out.

"Going on a road trip?" Bobby asks dryly.

"Something like," Dean answers, rolling up his knife collection. He checks a couple of handguns over briefly before adding them to the bundle, and Cas can see that he's got some rifles and other heavy artillery already stowed and ready to go in the duffel. "Marcus has it covered here. He's got a large enough hunting party together to go after the Croats."

He turns and strides out of his cabin, weapons duffel flung over his shoulder. "Tell Marcus I'm taking one of the trucks," he tells Bobby and Cas as he passes. "If I go now, I can get to Detroit by the morning."

Cas follows after Dean, leaving Bobby behind in the effort to keep up. "Then I'm coming with you."

Dean doesn't look over at Cas as he responds. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, expression stony. "No, you're staying here. You're going on that hunt with Marcus and the others. You may have to play the angel card and save the day with your mojo somehow."

"Dean, this is insanity. You can't insist on going alone-"

Dean stops in his tracks and faces Cas, cutting off the angel's protests with the look in his eyes before he even opens his mouth.

"Cas, there's a better-than-excellent chance that I'm not coming back from this. You need to stay here, keep everyone safe in case that's exactly what happens. In case-"

There's a brief moment where Dean looks like he's going to say something else, but then thinks better of it. He turns and walks away again and leaves the sentence hanging in the air.

Dean makes it ten steps before there's the sound of sudden commotion. Someone is screaming shrilly, panicked. Cas should have known that it would be enough to turn Dean around again and set him running back in the direction he came from, towards the source. Once again, the angel is following after Dean.

The screaming is coming from Maria, a widow who lives with her son, Joshua. She's standing with a group of other women who are doing their best to console her. Marcus is there. "Joshua," Maria keeps moaning, and she clutches at Marcus's sleeve. "Please, it might not be too late," she begs. "There could still be time."

"What's going on?" Dean asks, coming to a halt. Marcus turns serious eyes to the hunter.

"Joshua is," Marcus says and stops, running a hand across his mouth before he tries again. "Joshua went out this morning to hunt deer." He pauses again, sighs. "He went in the direction that we're headed in."

"You mean, he's headed in the direction of the Croats and he doesn't even know it?"

Marcus doesn't need to say anything. Maria dissolves into tears.

"How long until the hunting party is ready to go?" Dean asks, clenching his fists.

_Damn it. Goddammit. _

"Not soon enough," Marcus answers, voice heavy with meaning.

"Please," Maria begs again. "It's not too late." She looks to Dean. "My son," she cries. "He's only twenty six years old."

Dean feels his heart sinking. He knows he can't leave like this. He can't leave a mother to grieve for her son, not when he could have done something. He looks to Marcus, and Marcus is already nodding.

"We'd better get going right now," is all Dean can get out around the rock in his throat, in his heart.

**

* * *

**

**Now. **

"Cas?"

It's the first time Dean has said his name in days and sounded so clear. Cas crosses the room in moments and takes a knee beside the bed. The hunter is blinking at him, brow furrowed. "What time 's it?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"More like, what day is it?" Cas tries for levity, can't stop the goofy grin of relief from spreading across his face. "It's early. Or late. However you want to look at it. How are you feeling?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he's pushing the back of his hand against the hunter's forehead. Dean grunts and tosses his head, but it's a feeble effort.

"You've been very ill," Cas tells Dean seriously. "Do you realize that this is the eighth day since I walked in here and found you?"

"Lucky you," Dean grumbles as he pushes himself into a sitting position on the cot. He holds his head in his hands as he speaks. "Always the one to walk in and find the person. Getting to be a nasty habit, that."

Cas stiffens. He can't help it, but he flinches and glances away, suddenly uncomfortable. Dean notices and looks up, and by his expression it's clear that he's realized what he's just said. Shame crosses his face and he drops his eyes, looking away before speaking.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean hastily says, paling. "That wasn't fair of me." He clears his throat awkwardly, and Cas knows that the hunter is also thinking of Bobby at that moment. "Thank you. For…everything. Looking after my ass. I'm sorry to have caused any trouble."

"You should be sorry, Dean," Cas tells him gravely. "You made me cancel three clinics. And I've been told the Rondell twins want to come and join the sessions, too."

Dean chuckles wryly and shakes his head slowly, still rubbing his eyes. "Let me know if you ever find out which one's Carmen and which is Marcie. I never did get it straight." His voice is rusty with disuse, and Cas hands him a glass of water. Dean takes it with slightly trembling hands and drinks.

Cas sits back in his chair again and relaxes. Dean feels cooler, and he hasn't thrown up in nearly thirty hours, not since Cas came back from a short errand and found the hunter completely soaked through with sweat and sleeping more soundly than he had in days.

"I think you've turned a corner," he tells Dean. "But I have news that's going to make you feel even better."

Dean quirks a weary but amused eyebrow.

"Marissa started getting better a week ago," Cas says, smiling. "The antibiotics are working. She's still weak, but she walked outside the cabin for the first time today since the dog attack." He leans forward. "She's not going to lose her arm." Of course, the girl is going to have horrific facial scars for the rest of her life, but Cas knows that Dean is already well aware of the sad fact. Dead may be better than undead, but best of all is being _alive,_ especially when it's a child so young.

Dean's face brightens, and he turns to Cas, interested and hopeful.

"She is? You're sure?"

Cas smiles softly, relieved at seeing Dean so alert and nearly normal. "Unless she was faking it when I stopped by and saw her yesterday. I thought she was going to keep talking until my ear fell off."

Dean lays back at Cas's words. "That's good," he murmurs, tries unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. "That's really good." He's obviously still feeling weak and tired, but it's apparent to Cas that the hunter really is on the road to recovery.

Cas leans back further in his chair, picks up his book but doesn't open it, just keeps it in his lap.

"Yeah, Dean, it is," he agrees.

He watches as Dean's eyes begin to close, pleased.

**End of Part One**

**

* * *

**A/N: The second part of the last chapter to come soon! Hope to see you again!


	4. Chapter 3 Part 2

Hello!

So this is the last part. I want to thank everyone for reading, reviewing, alerting, etc. I'm grateful to you for spending your time on this story. An extra big thank you to graceofgod, for the amazing beta'ing: you improved on this story, big time!

I would welcome any comments. It's awesome to hear people's thoughts, and I think it's pretty much the tops that people are taking the time to share them. I have had a couple people message me and ask if I'm going to continue with this verse. My answer? I just may.

I also want to add one last time that this story may be spoilerish for anyone who hasn't seen The End. If you haven't seen the episode, you may want to stop reading now, or at least consider yourself warned.

Disclaimer: Not mine, peeps.

* * *

**Then.**

Cas knew that something was very wrong almost immediately after Dean and Marcus left.

It started as a soft pressing, the anxiety. A faint humming in the back of his mind. Before long, that hum became a whisper, and the whisper morphed into a hiss that picked and nagged at his brain.

It's when the headache starts that he's sure. Something's happening, and he's powerless to stop it. And suddenly, it feels like a comet is exploding in his head. The light and noise that fills his skull is horrific. He stops what he's doing and drops his duffel, clapping his hands to his ears and squeezing his eyes shut, until the blinding, deafening whiteness behind his eyeballs recedes. He opens them an endless moment later and is dimly surprised to find that he has collapsed to his knees. He doesn't feel the solicitous hand on his shoulder as he pushes himself back up to his feet, dazed and mute, and stumbles off in search of Bobby.

He finds the hunter in the common hall, fiddling with the walkie-talkies. He's working with his head down, squinting in concentration. Bobby is so calm, so focused on his task that Cas knows right in that instant. No one else but him is even remotely aware of what's going on, and the knowledge saddens him. He feels utterly alone with it, like he's bleeding and no one can see. He can't possibly begin to explain what's occurring right at this very moment to the hunter, that Detroit is happening right _now, _but he's the only one who can so he takes a shaking breath and steels himself.

"I'll have these ready to go in a minute," Bobby says to the angel without looking up from his work. It's not until Cas is standing directly over him that the hunter glances up, brow furrowed in irritation. "I need the light, you know," he begins, and then trails off. "Jesus, Cas, what is it? You look awful."

And Cas feels awful. His head is pounding so hard his vision is wavering, and this alone is a new experience for him. He's not sure how to put the rest of it into words. He feels different, like his energy is ebbing out of him, draining away to be replaced by a leaden weariness. His feet feel like they're encased in stone and cement, and the simple act of moving takes an effort he was never aware of until now. His vessel's body is sending him messages he's never received before: he's actually shivering, and his skin is covered in goose bumps.

He's…he's _cold._

Cas looks at Bobby, and he's not sure how to say the words. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his lips feel numb. He feels like he's talking for the first time. In a way, he is.

"Bobby," he says, stricken. "It's happening."

**

* * *

**

"So that's it? Sam's…gone?"

Bobby's face is ashen, grey with sorrow in the dimming light. Ever since Cas came to him in the common hall he's looked that way. The hours spent drinking whiskeys through the night have done little to ease his grief. Some things just can't be numbed.

As for Castiel…

The angel swallows, shaky. Then he looks down at his trembling hands.

_Angel,_ he muses, shaking his head. He knows by this point that the term no longer applies to him. He clenches his fingers into fists and observes the whiteness of his knuckles, the blue of his veins that stand out along the backs of his hands. He feels his lungs expand and contract with each breath, can almost hear his heart beating in his ears if he sits still enough and listens. Before now, he always felt encased in this vessel, a separate entity. Now, there is no separation between him and the flesh he wears. He _is _this flesh.

He feels utterly weak, ready to collapse as the realization slowly sinks in.

He doesn't understand what this new and sudden sensation is, but he gets it when he lifts a hand to his face. His cheek is wet. He's crying. He doesn't understand how he's doing it, so he wipes his face dry and blinks until he makes the tears stop.

Bobby takes another long pull from his whiskey, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "I don't know what to say, Cas," he says, voice hushed and heavy. "About you, about – Sam," his voice breaks and he pauses to recover himself before continuing. "About…any of it. It's just…it's _over_."

Cas looks out at the breaking day. Dawn is approaching, the sky turning faintly pink. The camp is still quiet for the time being, blissfully unaware.

He looks back at Bobby, smiles sadly. Isn't sure why he's smiling at all.

"There's nothing to say," he tells the aging hunter. "Sam said yes to Lucifer. It's done. We've failed."

Bobby has no reply to that. "Are you sure the angels have left? Is that why you're…whatever is going on with you?"

Cas takes a deep breath, experimenting. He feels like he's made of spun glass, he's so fragile, as though if he's not careful he'll break this delicate body. "I'm sure," he tells Bobby. "And yes, I think that's why I'm…human now."

"So they just pulled out and left you behind?"

"It appears that way."

Bobby looks back out to the camp before answering. He's thoughtful, faraway.

"Well, that frigging sucks for you, don't it?"

It's the dryness in Bobby's voice that has Cas turning his head, the humorless mirth. He looks at the hunter, searching for more. Some assurance, some comfort that this won't be unbearable. He could do this; he could live as a human. He's faked it this long, after all. It's when he meets eyes with the old man that he understands. There is no assurance, and it _is _unbearable. And now that Sam has said yes…it's intolerable. He doesn't know what he's going to say to Dean when he returns. If.

"Yes, it does suck." He agrees with Bobby because it's all he can say.

And then Cas does something else for the first time.

He laughs.

**

* * *

**

**Now.**

The next time Dean wakes, his fever is all but gone. The minute Luke pronounces him better the hunter is already throwing back the blankets and trying to rise, to get back to running things. Cas has to push him back onto the cot.

"Or you'll relapse," he tells Dean, and he gets an eye roll for his trouble. "The camp is fine, Dean. I'm not doing such a bad job winging it, you know. You should have a little more faith."

"That's funny, coming from a fallen angel," Dean mutters. Cas lets it slide, he's just happy that the hunter is coherent.

The news spreads quickly: Dean is recovering. The camp reacts with immediate cheer. The hunter is getting more knocks on the door than he cares for, and Cas finds himself feeling like a private bodyguard more than anything. The concern and care are appreciated, Cas relays to each visitor, but Dean isn't up for company; he's still resting. But the truth is that Dean doesn't want the attention, the recognition.

"They'll have to do without me eventually, anyway," is all he says on the subject.

There are two visitors that the hunter doesn't turn away, however. The day after Dean wakes there is a knock on the door. The hunter is half awake, sipping at broth with a look of profound distaste, and he's sitting up enough to see that it's Alex and Marissa when Cas opens the door. The little girl is sitting in a wheelchair, her brother standing behind her, beaming.

"We heard that Dean's better," Alex begins, a little timid. "And we…we just wanted- that is, if he's up for it…" He stammers and blushes furiously. Behind Cas, the hunter clears his throat.

"Don't hurt yourself," Dean says, a little embarrassed. "Come in, then." He puts his broth down and sits up higher on his cot.

Cas opens the door wider and steps aside. Sunlight spills over across the cabin floor. Alex pushes Marissa inside, and the siblings come over to Dean's bedside shyly. Dean watches their progress, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are cloudy with emotion, and Alex and his sister stare back in meek silence. It's when Marissa puts her right hand on his forearm, the scars from the dog attack still livid where they peek through the edges of bandages, that something changes within the hunter.

Dean doesn't say anything, just gazes at her through somber eyes. As predicted, the left side of her face is a mess. It's a wonder she didn't lose her eye. But she's alive and breathing and seeing her, seeing her brother with her, is so wonderful it damn near takes Dean's breath away. He lets out a choked sound, and it's been so long since Cas has heard it he almost doesn't recognize it for what it is.

Dean is crying.

**

* * *

**

Dean recovers rapidly. The next day he's up and about as though he was never ill in the first place, albeit he's not yet quite at full steam. Cas is more than happy to relinquish the reins, and the rhythms of the camp resume their normal paces. Dean resumes control, Chuck goes back to squawking in his ear about supplies for the upcoming winter, and Cas can return to his clinics and recreational substances, among other things. He is, after all, human.

The first thing he does is look up Cindy.

She's happy to see him, as always. She answers the door wearing his t-shirt, the one she wore home the last time they saw each other.

He looks down at it, smiling, as he walks through. Cindy closes the door behind him. "You missing this?" She gestures at the shirt, but the double entendre is obvious.

He's already aroused, but seeing Cindy standing there, looking at him, makes something else stir within him. Something deeper.

Now Cas is grinning outright.

"I didn't realize how much until now," he answers.

**

* * *

**

** Then**.

Cas has yet to learn the fine art of sleeping. Before, he'd gotten by on pretending. Now it's another story, altogether.

It's been three nights and two days since Dean, Marcus, and the hunting party left. The two hunters left nearly two hours before the party, and they had packed relatively lightly. Cas tries to be optimistic about their chances of finding Joshua before the Croats did, but it's difficult. He doesn't have much of anything to feel particularly good about.

"Maybe tonight you should try taking something," Bobby suggests. "You know, to take the edge off. Might put you to sleep."

Cas drops his head and laughs to himself. Since he's learned how to do it, that's all he's done is laugh. He can tell that Bobby finds it unsettling, but Cas can't bring himself to care.

"Maybe I will," is all he says to the hunter as he moves behind the wheelchair. "Let's hurry up, already." He handles the chair a little rougher than necessary to negotiate the path, but Bobby doesn't protest.

The minutes pass in silence, and then they are approaching a familiar, broken shape, its black paint dulled and deadened.

The Impala sits in silent accusation, shards of glass still littered on the ground around it, glinting and winking. Bobby looks over at the remains of the car in silence. He's holding his arm as though it aches; his face is still ragged from weeping over Sam. Over Dean, or rather, what the news would make of Dean when he returns.

Cas has only begun to understand grief, and he has no idea what he could possibly say. He has no words for Bobby; he's glad the hunter isn't looking for any.

"Cas," Singer quietly says, after a time. The Impala is behind them and they are nearing the main entrance to the camp. A jeep and four figures are seen standing there, watching their approach. Cas recognizes Germaine by the silhouette of his broken arm, strapped to his side.

Cas realizes that Bobby is waiting for him to acknowledge him before he continues. He clears his throat. "Yes?"

Bobby's voice is little more than a sigh. "Forget it," he mumbles, waves his hand. "Watch out for that rock."

Cas clenches his jaw and steers the wheelchair toward the group. Colin, Smith, and Gerald are standing with Germaine, looking worn and tired. Since signing up to be runners and watch guards, they have proven to be worth their weight in gold.

Colin steps forward and grips Cas's hand, then Bobby's. His face is grim.

"Dean's coming back, with Joshua. They're with the hunting party."

Cas doesn't fail to notice how one name is not mentioned. He can tell by the way Bobby's stiffened in the chair that the detail hasn't escaped his attention, either.

"Marcus?" Bobby asks.

Colin drops his eyes, struggling with himself. When he looks up again, he's regained his composure. "They've got it under control," he continues. "Just rounding up the last few Croats and taking care of them before coming back. Should be here by late tonight."

Bobby exhales a long breath. "Okay, then," he says. "Let's go tell Joshua's mother, and tell Luke to get his apron on. He might have some bandages to tie."

Cas observes that everyone is careful not to point out the elephant. No one is talking about Marcus. He nods along with everyone, unsure of how he's supposed to be feeling. Grief for Marcus, obviously. Uncertainty for the camp, what his death implies for everyone. But underneath it is an overwhelming sense of relief that Dean was not the one who has fallen, and he feels inexplicably guilty for the fact that he would rather hear it be Marcus's death than the other way around. Even though Marcus was an extraordinary man, he would prefer it a thousand times over.

He feels utterly confused and overwhelmed. All he can do is grip the handlebars to Bobby's wheelchair and prepare to push off to return to camp with the happy, heavy news.

"Wait," Germaine's voice calls out, stopping them. Cas pauses and he looks over his shoulder. He's holding up a camera in his good hand. There's a weary, hesitant smile on his face.

"For posterity?" he says. "You guys are bringing back the news. The camp's been saved. This is a…big day."

Colin snorts and Smith shakes his head in wry amusement. Gerald looks over at Cas and Bobby, and they all exchange a moment of understanding.

Who knows who will be around to see tomorrow, anyway?

"Sure," Bobby says, motions for everyone to gather around his chair. "May as well mark the occasion." They settle together, weapons casually resting in hand. Cas finds himself chuckling along with everyone, even though he's not sure if he finds the punch line all that funny.

"Any last words?" Germaine jokes dryly as he lifts the camera, squinting.

"Just take the damn picture," Cas growls, and he gets a snicker in response from everyone.

Later on, Cas will remember how Bobby looked while he sat in his wheelchair for the picture. Like he knew something that he wasn't telling.

**

* * *

Now.**

Cas has got to hand it to Alex: the kid's persistent in the face of adversity. And when Dean Winchester has his mind made up about something that is a whole lot of adversity, indeed. It's been two weeks since Dean's been back in the full swing of things, and Alex hasn't let up once during that time.

So far, the teenager has done everything but get down on his hands and knees and beg to be brought on a hunt.

So far, Dean has steadfastly refused. Today, Alex has resorted to bribing.

"I could do all of your inventory shifts for the next six months," he offers. "Just give me a chance to show you I'm ready."

Dean keeps walking straight ahead, stride unwavering until he reaches the pickup. He starts throwing his duffels in the bed of the truck, pats down the pockets of his hunting vest to check for his compass. One hand darts to his belt and checks for the knife that never fails to be there. "Sorry, kid," he says simply. "But maybe I _like_ standing around in the smelly Quonset for hours on end."

Alex almost trips over his own feet in an effort to keep up with Dean's rapid strides as the hunter turns and goes back for the second duffel. Cas can relate to the feeling, and he almost feels a pang of sympathy for the teen, trailing after the hunter like a lost puppy. Cas wisely keeps his mouth shut, though, and keeps a pace or two away.

"Alex, I don't doubt that you can do this. Not for a second, but that doesn't change anything. I'm sorry, dude. The answer is still no." Alex shoots a hand out, grabs Dean by the shoulder, imploring.

"I can do this, Dean. I can. Let me prove it to you."

For some reason that Cas can't fathom, Dean actually pauses in his preparations and turns to Alex, considering. He can see it written on the hunter's face; he's going to renege.

Later, Dean will tell Castiel that it was the way Alex said it. The kid reminded him of his brother in that moment, during their last conversation, the conversation that haunts his dreams relentlessly. That was why he relented, because of Sam, Sam's fate. And for the rest of his life, Castiel will always remember the outcome of this moment as the final break within Dean.

**

* * *

**

**Then.**

It turns out that Marcus isn't dead. Not exactly, anyway.

"He still had his gun when they grabbed him," Dean says as he drops heavily onto a bench in the common hall. Everyone has just returned, trudging in from the wet and the cold, disheartened. It's been pouring outside and the hunter is soaked through with the rest of the hunting party. There's a fire going in the chimney to cut the chill, having anticipated the need for it upon the party's return. Cas bends forward to inspect a nasty gash on Dean's forehead as he continues.

"There were gunshots, and I could hear some Croats screaming before they took him away." He sounds tired, mechanical. "I don't know if he saved a bullet for himself or not. I hope to God he did." He moves as though he wants to drop his head in his hands, but he flinches back under Cas's fingers.

"Christ, Cas! Stop jamming your fingers in my head. It hurts enough already." Then something shifts on Dean's expression, and he looks at Cas warily. Suspicion creeps into his voice. "Cas, why are your hands cold?"

Cas slides a look to Bobby, unsure of what to do. Bobby can only shrug, dark circles under his eyes. He looks ancient.

Dean doesn't miss the silent exchange between them. "What the hell is this? What's going on?"

Cas sighs slowly, bows his head. "Dean," he says, and then chokes on the sudden emotion that floods him. Dean's eyes widen, amazed, at seeing Cas cry. Then he pales, understanding slowly dawning. Cas wipes his eyes, tries again, but the tears just keep coming. His legs slowly crumble beneath him, and he sits beside Dean. Bobby's quiet, but his head is bent and he's wearing his hat low over his face. His shoulders are shaking.

Dean looks back and forth between the two men, nodding slightly to himself in affirmation. He takes a deep breath, exhales. Tries to breathe again but can't. Cas can see him struggling to keep himself under control. They aren't alone, after all. The hall is filled with others, and everyone in here is grieving. The whole camp is mourning. They've just lost their leader, possibly to a fate worse than death. Dean knows he has to keep it together for now. All the same, Cas can see his heartbreak written all over his face, in the sag of his shoulders. Tears fill the hunter's eyes and silently fall as he leans forward and buries his face in his hands without a single word.

Cas, in all of his mortal ineptness, finds himself clumsy in his grief. He opens and closes his mouth, like a fish. Finally he settles for reaching out, puts a tentative hand on the hunter's shoulder.

It's like the touch electrifies Dean. The hunter springs to his feet and charges out the door. Bobby can only shake his head and sigh. He looks pale, more than pale, but Cas doesn't have time to think about it. Singer jerks a thumb at the door.

"You'd better get going, if you expect to keep up."

By the time Cas runs out into the night Dean is already pulling away, the truck's taillights glowing in the gloom of the storm. Cas has no option but to hastily snatch some random jeep that's idly parked nearby, keys in the ignition. He's only driven a couple of times before, and he breathes a small sigh of relief when he sees that it's an automatic.

Even without the help of the storm, Dean would have easily out driven Cas. The hunter quickly leaves him behind, but Cas doesn't need to see Dean to know where he's going.

The Impala is at the gate entrance on the other side of camp. It looks exactly the same is it has from the moment of its arrival. Cas doesn't know why he expects it to look any different. But he's disappointed to find it sitting there, still busted up, all the same. Sure enough, the truck is there. The driver's side is flung open and Dean is pacing around like a mad person. He's looking up at the sky and gesturing wildly.

"YES!" He's screaming at the tops of his lungs, over the pounding of the rain and peals of thunder. "Yes, Goddamn you! I'm right here! Take me! Do you hear me, you son of a bitch? I'm saying yes! YES!"

Dean keeps hollering, spinning around as though he expects Michael to be standing behind him. When he pivots around and sees Cas the hunter raises his fist. Cas is taken back by surprise at the hostility in Dean's face.

"Just leave me alone, Cas," he warns.

"Dean, the angels are gone. They're _gone!_ And they're not coming back." He speaks with heavy emphasis, and it comes out sharper than he'd intended.

_Not now. Don't lose it now. _Cas isn't sure if he means himself or Dean, but all he knows is that if the hunter can't be strong there's no way that he can. Cas can feel himself bordering on hysteria and he forces his voice to level out as he speaks again. "Michael won't answer you, Dean." He feels absolutely hollow as he says the words. "It's too late." He takes a step closer to the hunter. "Come with me."

Dean reacts without warning, lunging. He punches Cas viciously across the face with a growl. Cas is sent sprawling to the ground, one hand on his jaw, shocked.

"Not like this," Dean says as he stands over Cas. "It doesn't end like this!"

"I'm sorry, Dean."

The hunter continues to stare down at Cas, neither man moving.

Cas isn't sure how much time passes, but after awhile Dean slowly sinks down onto his knees, slumping in defeat as the fight drains out of him.

"Cas, Marcus is either dead, or…or, he's one of those things by now," the hunter's voice is a whisper. "A Croat. They came up and flanked us by surprise, I couldn't get to him in time." He looks at Cas with a haunted expression. "What's going to happen to these people? Who will look after them?"

"I think you know the answer," Cas tells him gently. He knows how much Dean has come to care for the camp and its inhabitants, and he knows that duty and responsibility are part and parcel of the hunter's affections. Dean won't turn his back now. He will shoulder them.

Dean laughs, a bitter and broken sound. "How can I do that, Cas?" he sounds distinctly like he's begging. "If it's too late to say yes to Michael, then we're all screwed. I couldn't even look after my…my br-" his voice breaks, and he drops his head. He sobs raggedly.

"Sam…"

When Dean falls completely apart, Castiel is the only human to see him do it.

**

* * *

**

** Now.**

"When we get there, I want you to stay behind me at all times," Dean tells Alex seriously, a warning look flashing in his eyes. "I mean it, Alex. This isn't like that panty raid of a mission to the hospital you came along on. There's no screwing around, here. Okay?"

Alex nods, expression sober, posture straight and stiff. The teen looks like he wants to say something, but can't decide if he should speak up or not. Finally, he opens his mouth, leaning forward in the backseat.

"Is it him? Is that who we're going after?" he asks.

Dean doesn't react to the question. He keeps staring out the windshield as he drives along the rocky mountain path. But from his vantage point in the passenger seat, Cas can see his knuckles whitening as the hunter grips the steering wheel a little harder.

"No," Dean responds, voice icy. "Not anymore. Now it's just another monster."

* * *

**Then.**

When Cas finally brings Dean back to his cabin, Bobby is already there, waiting for them. He's got a glass of whiskey at the ready, which he pushes into Dean's shaking hands as they throw a blanket over his shoulders. Dean quietly allows himself to be steered to a chair and he sits without protest. When the glass is empty and the hunter isn't shaking as bad Cas and Bobby silently help Dean change into a dry set of clothes. Dean is numb and insensible, moving automatically and without thought. He's led to his cot and he sits back down on it, staring at nothing.

Bobby grips Dean's clasped hands in his, looks at him intently. He pushes the last living Winchester's hair back with a calloused palm as he talks quietly, words that Cas can't hear. He doesn't try to listen, anyway. The words aren't meant for him. After a time, Bobby's voice pitches louder, the moment passed.

"You're daddy would be proud of you, boy," he's telling Dean, voice husky and tight. "I'm proud of you." The grizzled hunter's eyes brim with unshed tears, and the hand on Dean's head slides down to the back of his neck. Bobby bends Dean's head down briefly and he presses his lips to the hunter's scalp in a fatherly gesture. Then Singer turns his chair around and slowly lets himself out of the cabin.

Dean hangs his head. Cas stands there, clenching and unclenching useless hands. The sound of rain and wind hitting the windowpane fills the room.

**

* * *

**

Cas is the one to find Bobby in the morning, and it's almost like it was the hunter's final gift to him.

Even as Cas walks up the wheelchair ramp to the hunter's cabin, the silence that leaks through the walls is disturbing. There is no rustle, not a single sign of life through the small gap between the window curtains. Cas starts to knock, but the door swings open easily at the first touch.

Cas steps inside swiftly. "Bobby?"

Bobby Singer is there, on the bed. If he were breathing, he'd look like he was having the most restful sleep of his life. The chair is parked beside the cot, the brake on. His slippers are neatly arranged beside the chair, toes pointed outward. His hat is on the bed stand, his hair neatly combed, and he must have changed into a clean shirt and pants before lying carefully down.

When Luke comes and sees, he shakes his head, sorrowfully. "I'll be damned," is all he can say. "I'd guess heart attack. He must have known somehow, maybe felt it coming on for awhile." It's then it all comes to Cas in small bursts of memory: Bobby rubbing his chest or holding his arm as though it pained him. Bobby looking pale and worn. Bobby and the photograph. _Bobby._

Cas can almost hear the hunter now: _Hindsight is a real pain in the ass. _

It couldn't be more true, even if Bobby had said it.

The rest of the day is a blur for Cas. He remembers walking blindly to Dean's cabin, falling on his face when he trips on the step to his door. He doesn't remember what Dean said when he told the hunter that Bobby was dead. Maybe he didn't say anything. Cas remembers how Dean looked down at Bobby's body like he'd seen one too many tragedies in the world. He remembers how Dean carefully wrapped the man he loved like a father up in linen before he carried the bundle out the door and laid him across the bench seat of the truck. Dean gently lifted Bobby's head and slid in behind the wheel before resting it carefully on his lap, closing the driver's side door and rolling the window down.

Dean starts the truck up, but doesn't take it out of park. Instead, he squints up at the sun briefly. It's early morning, but already it's a beautiful day. There is minor activity in the camp, but for the most part the most noise is coming from the singing of the birds in the trees around them. Finally, Dean turns his head and looks at Cas, eyes dull.

"You good to follow?"

Cas doesn't hesitate. He smiles softly.

"Of course I am, Dean."

They drive to an open field and burn Bobby's body in silence. From time to time someone from camp stops by and stands with them before moving on. Cas remembers Deans standing immobile, watching the flames as the pyre burns down. He's still standing there late that evening, with the glowing coals.

Above all, what Cas remembers most is standing there over Bobby's body earlier that morning. He remembers looking at Bobby's face and thinking how that was the most at peace he's ever seen the hunter look. There was an absence of care, of suffering, or any other burden. Death made Bobby look younger somehow. He also looked…gone. Like he wasn't in his body anymore, like he's been freed from the mortal coil. Cas remembers how relieved that made him feel.

**

* * *

**

**Now.**

By the time they pull up to the meeting spot, Gerald is already there with two passengers. Dean climbs out of the truck and the other group does the same. Cas recognizes Aaron and Dave, the two men with Gerald, and everyone exchanges a quick handshake and nod. There is a curious glance or two directed at Alex, but no one says anything about the teen's presence, and Dean doesn't volunteer any explanation.

The hunter gives everyone a cursory sweep with his eyes. "Everyone good?" he asks sharply, waits a couple seconds before turning and heading out. Everyone falls in line behind him, and Dean only has a few simple instructions before the patrol continues on in silence.

"Eyes peeled, everyone. No talking. Don't forget to not be stupid, Alex."

Cas shakes his head in bemusement at the back of Dean's head. Backwards advice, coming from the most reckless person he's ever known.

As the hours press on, Cas finds himself remembering the good old days of zapping himself around. No tiring marches, no rain, no blisters. Just thinking about the place, and then _being _there the very next moment. If he were still an angel, he'd have found who they were looking for already. He sighs and reminds himself that patience is a virtue, right before he tells himself that virtue doesn't keep anyone alive.

The day has dwindled into late afternoon by the time Dean finally calls a halt. The company settles into an amicable dinner, eating rations and sharing a canteen until Dean reaches into the rations bag and pulls out a six pack, yanking each beer out of its ring and tossing one to a waiting pair of hands. After that, everyone kind of settles back and does his own thing. Gerald has his cigarettes with him, and Cas bums one after he smokes the joint he brought along. Dean wrinkles his nose in distaste and moves over to sit by Alex, who suddenly looks like a deer in the headlights. Cas almost feels embarrassed _for _the kid, the teen's hero worship is so bad. He turns away from the uncomfortable sight of Alex's nervousness and puffs on his Players Filter, wondering idly why Gerald has Canadian smokes. Things taste like shit.

"How you doing?" Dean asks Alex, knocking his beer lightly against the teen's in greeting. "Don't feel nervous, like you're gonna puke?" Dean grins. "Cos if you do, I'd like to see that."

Alex smiles and shakes his head, slowly getting over his shyness. He only blushes half as crimson as he normally does whenever Dean talks to him. The hunter jostles the teen in good humor, and Alex pushes back lightly. "No," he tells Dean. "I'm excited, not nervous." Alex licks his lips and leans forward. "I'm ready," he tells the hunter earnestly, eagerly.

Dean rocks back on his heels a little, takes a swig of his beer before he answers.

"And just what makes you so ready?" Dean asks, fingering the tab on his beer can idly. It pops off and he flicks it away into the tall grass a few feet away.

Alex looks like he's steeling himself. When he speaks, he has brooding conviction hanging heavily in his voice. Cas can hear it plain as day, and it's incredibly naïve and ridiculous.

"Because," the teen says fervently, "I want to do what you do. I want to learn how to hunt. I know what 'hunt' means; it's not just deer or Croats." Alex swallows. "I want you to show me how to hunt monsters."

Dean's face goes shuttered and distant. "You don't want me to do that," he tells the teen in a quiet voice. Cas holds his breath and glances away.

"Yeah, I do," Alex insists. "I know what I'm asking."

"Do you?" Dean's voice is sharp and he raises an eyebrow.

If Alex has anything to say in response he doesn't get the chance. Aaron is suddenly jumping to his feet, listening tensely. Whatever it is, Dean hears it too, and the hunter likewise stands and cocks an ear into the wind. Cas's hand is sliding towards his gun when he hears it, too.

Laughter.

"So he's here, after all," Dean says under his breath.

The group sits stock-still and listens as the laughter comes trickling through the trees surrounding them, coming closer and then dancing away.

Dave makes a move as though to head off into the tree cover in the direction of the deranged sound, but Dean thrusts a hand out. "No," the hunter hisses. "That's what it wants, for you to go out there. The sun will be setting in a few minutes; it'll be dark soon, and they see a hell of a lot better in the dark than we do. We stick together."

So the group hunkers down and waits for the next move. Cas throws occasional looks Alex's way. The teen licks his lips and peers out into the shadows of the forest, sweat trickling down the bridge of his nose.

It's when it gets close that Alex loses his nerve. A cackle sounds, coming from close by, and everyone's heads whip in the direction of the noise. A shadow breaks away from a tree and flits away, leaving the sound of demented giggling behind. The teen jumps to his feet, takes aim and fires blindly in the direction of the movement. There is a sharp cry, followed by the sound of a body thudding to the ground. Alex lets out a whoop of victory and rushes forward.

Dean is on his feet and chasing after the teen a moment after. "No! Alex!" he yells frantically, but it's too little too late. The kid falls for the trap, and once he's within striking distance the second Croat makes it move, detaching itself from the gathering cover of darkness and moving to intercept Alex. Dean throws his rifle aside as he runs, reaches for his pistol and takes swift aim and fires at the second Croat. At the last second the thing ducks and whirls around, snarling, to face Dean like a cornered, feral animal. It's when he hears Alex's cry of shock that the hunter turns his attention away from the Croat for the briefest of moments.

There is a Croat approaching Alex, grinning hideously. Alex has his gun raised but it's like he's not registering that he's holding it. He gawks at the creature with undisguised horror, mouth slack.

A shape rushes Dean even as the hunter swings his gun towards the Croat stalking Alex and shoots it directly in the head. The creature slams into him with bone-jarring impact in a flurry of dirty rags and grinding teeth. Filthy hands are scrabbling at him, tearing at his clothes in a desperate attempt to find purchase.

Cas is already moving forward, shouting, but suddenly more Croats rush in out of nowhere, melting out of the trees. The air is filled with their screeching and growling, and he starts shooting at the ones that come closest, trying to clear a path to get to Dean and Alex. He can hear more gunshots behind him, grunts and the sounds of flesh striking flesh. Cas can't get to Dean, but he can see over the Croat's shoulder while the hunter twists his head and sees the his gun he'd dropped, lying several feet away from his reach, and his hand flies out and his fingers curl around a broken off tree branch. He has just enough time to lash out with the branch and hold the Croat off with it before the thing rips his ear off with its teeth. Even so, it's close, and the creature's snapping teeth are inches away from Dean's face as the hunter struggles to throw the thing off him.

Cas's attention is pulled away by a Croat that comes at him from behind, the sound of its hissing breaths making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He whirls around, away from Dean and his struggles, away from the dumbfounded teen still mired in horror, to face his new aggressor. Just before he shoots the thing, Cas can hear Dean's shouts.

"Alex! Take the shot! Take it!"

Cas curls his finger around his trigger and squeezes. The sound of a Alex's gun echoes his. As Cas whips around and starts picking off the last of the Croats with the others he can sees Dean rolling in the direction of his gun. It's when the last Croat drops to the ground, the god-awful shrieking finally ceasing, that Cas is able to turn back around to Dean.

The hunter is pointing his pistol at the twitching Croat on the forest floor directly behind Alex. The creature had been approaching the teen slowly, stalking him, and the kid had never thought to check his blind spots. Alex stares, slack jawed, as Dean shoots the Croat one last time and it goes still with one final, bubbling breath. When Dean lowers his gun, he stares at the teen as though he could bore holes through him. Alex quavers, pale and shell shocked, as he waits for Dean to break the silence. When the hunter doesn't open his mouth the kid swallows forcibly, his throat working. His wide eyes move to Dean's arm, where blood is soaking through the fabric of his jacket. "D-did I…?"

"Shoot me?" Dean cuts in, voice and face both unreadable. "Yeah, you did."

Alex's fingers twitch convulsively, and he drops his rifle. He looks as though he could faint. "Oh, God," he moans. "I'm sorry, Dean."

The hunter looks down at his arm, tries to move it, testing his range of motion, and he hisses at the pain the movement causes. If he's about to say anything, he doesn't get the chance. Dean's head whips up, and he's staring over Gerald's shoulder for the briefest of moments before he's got his gun raised and aimed.

Cas whirls to see what Dean's looking at, his gun also at the ready, but he can already see it's too late. All eyes had been on Alex and the hunter, and no one had noticed the Croat sneaking up on Gerald. It's already lunging at him, and Dean's shot barely misses it. Cas can't get off a clear shot, and neither can Aaron or Dave. It proves to be too late, anyway. Gerald screams as the Croat knocks him down, sinks its teeth into the soft tissue of his neck and tears away a large hunk of meat. A knife flashes in Gerald's hand as he starts slashing at the creature frantically. The Croat fights back with desperate intensity, fingers and teeth ripping. Cas sees the blood, and in that horror-filled moment he realizes that the Croat is bleeding all over the place, all over Gerald. Gerald finally manages to coil his legs beneath the creature and kick it off. He pushes away, blood already trickling down his shirtfront, and the creature lets him retreat, a chunk of Gerald's flesh dangling from its lips. It lifts its head and smiles as it chews, undead eyes flashing. Cas feels dread ice his veins, and behind him he hears Alex retching.

It's Marcus.

"Oh, my God," Aaron breathes, and the Croat's lips split into a wide grin. It throws his head back and laughs, the same laugh that's been taunting the camp for weeks, now. It's the same laugh Marcus had when he was alive, but now it's twisted and gnarled, like his body has become. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated, limbs moving at awkward angles, as though his joints no longer worked the same as they had when he was alive. This Croatoan Marcus is only a woozy memory of the real man, a mockery. It hurts to see him this way, more than Cas had expected it to.

Cas can sense movement, and he barely has to turn his head before he sees Dean, walking up towards the Croat purposefully, gun still drawn. The Croat's eyes narrow and it reaches out, lightning fast, and grabs Gerald, holding the man against it like a shield as it regains its feet. Gerald lets out a sound like a frightened animal, eyes huge. Dean doesn't stop coming, just quickens his pace. And suddenly he shoots, and Gerald cries out in fear, clenching his eyes shut. The bullet strikes the Croat right between the eyes, only an inch or two from Gerald's ear. It falls to the ground and Gerald windmills back, falling against a tree and sliding down to sit heavily, hand clamped over his bleeding neck.

Cas knows he should move, do something, _anything,_ but he can't. It's as though a spell has been cast on him. He's rooted to the spot, still in shock, as Dean walks up and stands over the thing that used to be Marcus. The hunter stares down at the body for a few moments.

"Why'd you come back here?" he asks it angrily. "Why didn't you kill yourself when you had the chance? Before you became _this?_"

Of course, there is no answer volunteered by the corpse. A fly lands on Marcus's beard and makes its way towards one glazed eye.

Dean turns around slowly and faces Gerald. The man is still sitting down, breathing harshly. The hunter slowly crouches and wraps a gentle hand around Gerald's wrist, carefully pulls his hand away from his neck. The wound is still streaming blood, jagged and deep. Teeth marks can be plainly seen, even from Cas's vantage point.

Cas hangs his head; he senses Dave and Aaron shifting back. They know as well as he does. There's no way Gerald hasn't been infected with Croat blood.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, and the softness of his voice doesn't fit with the hardness to his face. Gerald's pallor whitens further at the implication in Dean's words, and he shrinks back, holding his hands out before him.

"No, Dean. Please," he begs, licking his lips, eyes darting to each man in his company. Everyone is silent.

"Please," Gerald begs again. Then he starts to sob with great, heaving shudders. "My family," he chokes out. "Please, let me see them just one more time. Just once more. There's still time before it happens."

Cas bows his head. He can hear it Gerald's voice. He knows there's not enough time. There's never enough.

Dean looks at Gerald for a moment longer, saddened, before he extends his hand. "Yeah, okay," he tells the man. "We should hurry."

Gerald looks up, smiling weakly through his tears. He runs a hand over his face, shaking. "Thank you," he whispers as he takes the hunter's hand and allows himself to be pulled up. "Thank you, Dean." He starts shuffling past Dean, heading to the jeep.

As soon as Gerald walks within arm's reach away from Dean the hunter raises his gun.

"I'm sorry," he tells the back of Gerald's head the moment before he pulls the trigger.

Gerald falls dead in his tracks, his eyes still fixed on the jeep. The sound of Alex retching redoubles. Cas closes his eyes. This is the first time Dean's ever had to shoot someone after being infected by the Croatoan virus.

The mechanical chirping of crickets closes in during the silence that follows. Finally, Dave starts moving. "We should wrap the body up to bring back," he says quietly, and begins searching in the jeep for a tarp.

Dave's statement seems to break the spell, and time resumes again. Dean raises his head and glares over at Alex, anger lighting a fire in his eyes. There is a dangerous look on his face. He storms over and grabs the kid by the back of his neck, propelling him forward to come and stand over the body of Gerald, the twisted shell of Marcus.

"Are you seeing this?" he asks the teen. Alex nods hastily, sobbing quietly. Snot is running down his face. "Still want to be a hunter?" This time the teen shakes his head.

"Say it! Do you still want to be a hunter?"

"N-no!" Alex stammers, almost falls to the ground when Dean releases him.

The hunter turns and wordlessly helps Dave move Gerald's body onto the tarp, leaving the teen to sniffle himself back under control.

Cas stands over Marcus's body, wonders what he was thinking of in his final moments before he changed into a Croat, if he was thinking about his wife.

**

* * *

**

**Then.**

Two days after Bobby's death, Dean shows up on Cas's doorstep. It's not even dawn yet, and Cas opens the door in confusion.

"Feel like going for a drive?" He asks. Cas looks down and sees that Dean's holding the photo Germaine took the other day.

"Sure," Cas answers, swinging the door open. "Just give me a minute."

They drive out of camp just as dawn starts to break, Cas holding the photo. He studies it, and Bobby's face stares back silently, grimly. The Camp Chitaqua sign looms in the background of the image like an omen.

Barely five words had passed between them by the time they finally pull into Bobby's salvage yard. The house is smashed and in complete disarray from the attack, but there are no traces of any Croats having stuck around. They walk over the broken furniture, the pages and pages of books and articles fluttering across the floor. The wheelchair is still there, bloodied and knocked over, abandoned. Seeing it reminds Cas of the desperate flight out of there, the night they were attacked. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Dean's jaw is clenched so tight Cas can practically hear the hunter's teeth creaking as he walks over to the mantle and runs his hands along it, testing. He finds the trick piece and pulls it out, exposing the hiding place. Dean reaches in without a word and pulls out a small book. Bobby's journal.

Dean opens it and stuffs the photograph inside. He puts the journal back and seals the hiding spot up again.

"In case any hunters come along," Dean tells Cas. "They'll find the journal and know where to go next. We could use all the help we can get." The hunter moves to the kitchen, or what remains of it. Somehow he manages to find the only two glasses that aren't broken and a bottle of Beam. He pours two sloshing glasses and holds one out for Cas.

"I'm not a drinker," Cas says.

"You are today."

They move to the porch and sit down, staring out at the salvage yard, unspeaking. The wind has died down, the storm clearing, and it's eerily silent, save for the occasional creaks and moans of assorted junk heaps. After a time, Dean turns his head and looks at Cas.

"Cas, I never want to talk about…what's happened," the hunter tells him. "Not any of it, okay?" His voice wavers slightly, and he takes a long swallow of whiskey to steady himself. He resumes speaking, talking in low, sorrowful tones.

"What happened, it's done. Bobby, Sammy…" he trails off and clears his throat, eyes suddenly bright with tears. "They're gone. The angels are gone. You're…like the rest of us." He chuckles brokenly. "You poor bastard. You're one of us."

"Dean, I don't understand-"

"I don't understand any of it, Cas," Dean tells him. "But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. There's no point talking about it, because it's not changing a bloody thing. All that's left is the camp." He laughs again, a bitter sound. "It's like Bobby knew, that son of a bitch. All we've got is that place. That's all those people have. So that's it. That's all that matters, now." He looks up at Cas, and tears are shining on his cheeks, unnoticed.

Cas is sure this is what a broken heart must feel like. He's only been human for a few scant days, and already he's tired beyond words. Looking at Dean, he knows that he doesn't need to vocalize it. The hunter understands.

Cas swallows, takes a deep breath. Life at Camp Chitaqua has officially begun.

"Okay, Dean."

**End.**

**

* * *

**A/N: Did I enjoy killing Bobby? Definitely not! But I don't think Bobby was meant to survive in that timeline, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the show was also implying that, even though they don't come right out and say it. We know that Bobby made it to the camp because he was in the photograph, but no mention of him after that. I hope I haven't angered anyone by "killing off" one of the best tv characters out there right now. I'll be sure to make Bobby's next appearance in a future fic (whenever that may be) an extra-alive one, to make up for his death in this one ;). Thanks for reading, guys. I'm glad I could share this. Writing it was an awesome experience. I hope I see you again!


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